Eye of the Hurricane
by Luna Argenta
Summary: As the BAU team deals with a killer who doesn't seem quite human, Reid must deal with the aftermath of being raped, and sort out his relationship with Hotch. Sequel to one-shot "Shelter from Storm".  Completed.
1. Minimization

Eye of the Hurricane

**Summary**: As the BAU team deals with a killer who doesn't seem quite human, Reid must deal with the aftermath of being raped, and sort out his relationship with Hotch. Sequel to one-shot "Shelter from Storm".

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Criminal Minds, nor do I make money from writing about it.

Un-beta'ed – any mistakes are my own.

**Warnings**: References to non-con Reid/OC. Rated M for the slashy stuff. Supernatural plot-elements.

* * *

**Chapter 1: Minimization**

_The acute stage occurs in the days or weeks after a rape. Durations vary as to the amount of time a survivor may remain in the acute stage. The immediate symptoms may last a few days to a few weeks and may overlap with the outward adjustment stage._

_There is no "typical" response amongst rape victims. In most cases, a rape survivor's acute stage can be classified as one of three responses: expressed ("He or she may appear agitated or hysterical, [and] may suffer from crying spells or anxiety attacks"); controlled ("the survivor appears to be without emotion and acts as if 'nothing happened' and 'everything is fine'"); or shock/disbelief ("the survivor reacts with a strong sense of disorientation. They may have difficulty concentrating, making decisions, or doing everyday tasks. They may also have poor recall of the assault"). Not all rape survivors show their emotions outwardly. Some may appear calm and unaffected by the assault._

_Survivors in the outward adjustment stage seem to have resumed their normal lifestyle. However, they simultaneously suffer profound internal turmoil, which may manifest in a variety of ways as the survivor copes with the long-term trauma of a rape. The outward adjustment stage may last from several months to many years after a rape._

_RAINN__identifies five main coping strategies during the outward adjustment phase:_

_Minimization (pretending 'everything is fine')_

_Dramatization (cannot stop talking about the assault)_

_Suppression (refuses to discuss the rape)_

_Explanation (analyzes what happened)_

_Flight (moves to a new home or city, alters appearance)_

Spencer sometimes curses his eidetic memory. And his almost physical need to research. And his inability to not know every little detail of everything he, for whatever reason, finds interesting.

It's one of those days where Spencer just feels like cursing anything, really.

He glares at his own reflection in the mirror, and has a childish urge to stick out his tongue. Instead, he inspects his face closely, as he does every morning. He tentatively touches his throat, as if he can't quite believe without touching it that the finger-shaped bruises have disappeared several days ago. As always, after a night of too-real dreams, he needs the physical reassurance.

He's returning to work today, after a forced two-week leave of absence. Of course, he argued. Tried to negotiate it down to one week. But Hotch wouldn't budge. And in the end, the threat of Strauss and a lifelong ban to the local library – the former by Hotch and the latter by Garcia - he resigned. And sulked behind closed doors for exactly twelve hours, refusing to answer his phone – which led to Morgan pounding at his door at 1 am. He'd yelled at Spencer for ten minutes for "worrying me sick, man, sick!" – and then they'd watched a rerun of Babylon 5 and shared the six-pack Morgan brought. Spencer'd had two, and Morgan had woken up on the couch with a headache and a bad attitude.

Spencer knows he's somewhere between the first two stages of 'rape trauma identification', and coping by minimization with a dash of suppression thrown in.

He doesn't want to think about Harris and what happened in the basement. Not so much because of Harris, or the… incident. But because thinking of that invariably leads him to think of Hotch and _that_… incident.

Spencer scowls at his own worried mirror-face.

Hotch. Damn the man.

After their talk in the hospital, Hotch had let him know that he'd let Spencer take the lead on whatever should happen next. That he didn't want to push Spencer into anything. And he's called Spencer every day, to check up on him. Even stopped by once, which was awkward seeing as Prentiss had decided to stop over the same night, and Hotch went all business on Spencer, instead of just relaxing and acting like a concerned boss/colleague. Which would've been perfectly normal.

Glaring daggers at Emily and telling Spencer he needed to pass his psych eval before he could even think of returning, and then leaving in a huff, was not normal. Emily had snorted when Reid smiled weakly and passed off Hotch's behavior with a shrug and a "PMS?".

"More like PITA," she had muttered, adding, at Spencer's confused look, "pain in the ass".

Spencer had almost knocked her down in his effort to rush into the kitchen to hide his furious blush.

Spencer leaves his mirror-image alone for now, and spends the next ten minutes worrying about what to wear for work that will lead to the least touching.

He doesn't really like it when people touch him, these days.

JJ and Emily always touch him when he's wearing his green tie with the yellow dots. They try to yank it off, and Rossi once called it '_the biggest threat to breaking the Geneva convention'_. And whenever he's wearing one of his sweater vests, Morgan has to rub his hands all over it, while he shuffles his feet on the floor, and then he'll invariably try to give Garcia a dose of static electricity. She'll scream and hit Morgan on the head with a loose computer gadget of sorts, and then she'll seek out Spencer and whack him on the head with one of his case files, for 'encouraging that sort of lewd office behavior'. But her eyes will sparkle, and she'll saunter past Morgan, who'll grin and tell her it wouldn't work if she wasn't so hot. And she'll giggle and tell him to '_dare dream on, my chocolatey god'_.

Spencer really hates working with profilers, sometimes. They're so predictable.

In the end, he dresses in his most neutral brown shirt and russet tie.

Hotch never touches him.

* * *

The first thing Spencer hears when he steps off the elevator is Garcia's infectious laugh, and an answering chuckle from Morgan. As he turns into the bullpen, he sees the familiar sight: Morgan is perched on his desk, Garcia in his office chair. Prentiss is standing next to Garcia, and JJ is lounging with a stack of files in her arms. Rossi is sitting at his own desk, pretending to not listen into what he refers to as _'the overflowing source of youthful hormones and boasting'_ – but they all know he's just waiting for somewhere to insert one of his dry, witty comments. Morgan, especially, is counting on it, so he can counter with a thinly veiled insult to Rossi's age. And Prentiss will become indignant on Rossi's behalf, and tell Morgan to respect his elders. And Morgan will say he already respects Emily as much as he can, to which she'll sigh and roll her eyes at Rossi.

Spencer is certain Emily has a big crush on Rossi. And he's even more certain that Rossi – and everyone else – knows, but that he – and everyone else – is afraid of what the consequences would be of taking it further. Partly due to Rossi's notorious past history with the FBI ladies – but also because no-one would do anything to compromise the tight relationship of the team.

Of course, Spencer's already compromised more than he ever thought he would.

He doesn't see Hotch anywhere. But Morgan sees _him_, and his face breaks into a big smile.

"Hey! Pr… err, party boy!" he calls, and Spencer cannot help but offer a small smile at the effort Morgan is making. Garcia squeals and rockets off Morgan's chair, and Spencer takes a hasty step backwards as she rushes towards him.

Even though she's not a profiler, Garcia probably senses that a crushing bear hug would be out of place, so she settles for giving him a peck on the cheek and a bright expression, before she hauls him to the team's cluster of desks.

Spencer discreetly retracts his hand from hers, and returns the smiles of Emily and JJ with a small one of his own. He has a feeling his face will hurt by the end of the day, from all that insincere smiling.

"Hey, guys," he greets, forcing himself to focus on Rossi's face to keep his eyes from flickering about to look for… _oh, stop it_.

Rossi offers that small, smug smile of his, and Spencer quickly looks at Morgan, who's trying to catch his attention.

"How you doing, Reid? You know, I think all the sugar's gone bad now that you haven't been around to inhale it." Prentiss snorts, and JJ laughs gently.

"All that's gone bad are your jokes, Morgan," Spencer can hear himself replying, and for a horrifying moment he's afraid he's made one of those awkward, embarrassing jokes that are only funny in his socially inept ears. But Garcia squeals with laughter, and Morgan is looking immensely pleased for someone who's just been taken down a notch.

"Hey, hey, Dr. Reid! I'm impressed! Did you spend your downtime reading '_Comebacks for dummies'_?"

Spencer rolls his eyes. "No, but I will do when you finish writing it, Morgan."

Even Rossi laughs at that, and Spencer can feel the familiarity of it all washing over him, slowly relaxing the knot in his stomach that he hadn't really been aware of. Maybe the day won't be so bad after all…

"Did I miss something funny?" asks a familiar, deep voice behind him, and Spencer is sure they all notice the slight twist of his shoulders – which to a profiler is akin to jumping and screaming bloody murder.

"Hotch!" Garcia is still laughing as she jabs her finger into Morgan's ribs. "You only missed my little genius finally getting the last word in with Mr. Douchebag."

Morgan laughs and feigns pulling a knife out of his heart.

"Who you calling a douchebag, baby?"

Spencer vaguely registers Garcia making a flippant reply before she rushes off to her electronic cave, but he allows his attention to focus on Hotch for just a second.

Dark eyes stare into his own, and his stomach suddenly can't decide if it should tighten up again or explode with butterflies. Hotch's pokerface is completely blank and devoid of emotions, but Spencer lets himself think that there's a glimmer of… something in Hotch's eyes. He breathes evenly to keep his expression under control.

A second has passed, and Spencer settles into a polite expression.

"Hey, Hotch," he says, glad to hear his voice is even.

"Reid," Hotch replies, nodding slightly. "Glad to have you back. Come see me when you've settled in. I'm sure you remember where the kitchen is. Morgan tells me the sugar missed you."

With that, he turns around and heads for his office. Prentiss' eyebrows have almost climbed to her hairline.

"Hotch is cracking jokes and Reid makes witty comebacks. Something's not right here," she tells Rossi, before turning to her own desk. "Oh, and welcome back, Spencer," she adds with a smile. Spencer is quickly running out of smiles, and ends up making a grimace to her, which she seems to accept as a fair attempt. He really likes Emily.

"Told you, it's the overflowing…."

"… source of hormones and youthful boasting. Yeah yeah, Rossi," Morgan finishes, winking at Reid and JJ before he, too, turns to his desk and very pointedly picks up a file.

Spencer can feel the weight of Rossi's gaze and he meets the too-wise eyes for a moment. Damn it, Rossi knows too much. And has probably already deducted the rest.

"Coffee doesn't sound bad," Spencer says to no-one in particular, and slings his bag and coat over his chair. JJ places a gentle hand on his arm for a moment, and smiles softly. "Welcome back, Spence." It's a little bit easier returning JJ's smile.

Fortified by three gulps of too-hot coffee – an extra cube of sugar thrown in for good luck; Morgan asked him if the spoon would actually stand upright if he let go of it, which led Spencer to happily launch into a long explanation of physics and chemistry and the density of liquids to which Morgan slowly backed off – Spencer knocks on Hotch's open door and steps in.

"Have a seat," Hotch tells him and nods to the chairs situated in the other end of the room. Spencer sits in the one that will make him invisible from the bullpen.

Hotch takes the one across from him, and they stare at each other for a second.

"I did pass the psych eval," Spencer blurts out, Hotch's probing eyes making him squirm in his seat. Hotch raises an eyebrow.

"I know, Reid. But we both know you're clever enough to run in circles around the bureau psychologists. So I'm not letting you into the field unless you can convince me you're really alright."

Spencer opens his mouth, and closes it again. Then he gulps down about half his coffee. Hotch is staring evenly at him.

"I'm… getting there," he finally admits, knowing – wanting – that Hotch can see right through him. He has to admit to himself that he likes the idea of Hotch being concerned for him. "I have nightmares. And I really want to go back to work, to get something else to think about." Hotch looks skeptical at that, and Spencer hurries to explain. "I'm not… suppressing it. Really, Hotch! But just because something bad happened to me, I don't want to spend every waking minute thinking about it. Or every sleeping one, for that matter. Would you believe I'd rather dream of beheaded bodies and raging psychopaths?" He tries a grin, but can feel it coming out wrong. Hotch still doesn't say anything, and Spencer silently curses the well-known interrogation-technique of letting the suspect – and that would be him – babble on until he reveals something compromising. And then Spencer babbles on to reveal something compromising:

"I wanted to go see you. But I was afraid you didn't want me to."

He is looking at his coffee as he says it, but at the silence he looks up just in time to see Hotch school his shocked expression back into neutral.

"Reid," Hotch finally says, and Spencer feels the butterflies bouncing around in his stomach as Hotch slowly reaches over and covers his hand with his own – everything but Hotch's profile hidden from the bullpen.

"I'm sorry you felt that way. I wanted to come see you. Every day. But I didn't want you to think I wanted more than you…"

"I know, I know," Spencer cuts him off, slightly annoyed. But he doesn't take his hand away from Hotch's warm grasp. "After you turned up that night when Emily was there, I thought you were mad at me," he admits. "That maybe you changed your mind about… the whole 'trying again under different circumstances'-thing." He looks up at Hotch, and doesn't even bother trying a smile. His quota is filled for the day.

Hotch looks as close to chagrined as Spencer has ever seen him.

"I'm sorry, Reid. Spencer."

Damn those butterflies.

"We'll talk more later. After work," Hotch says, squeezing his hand before letting go. Spencer nods, understands. But there's still another matter to discuss.

"Hotch, please let me back in the field. I promise, if I feel like I can't handle it, I'll let you know. I'd really like to get back to work. Besides, you know you'll miss me the moment a hard case pops up."

Spencer has no idea how much he'll come to regret those hopeful words.

He gets an inkling, however, when there's a knock at the door and JJ enters without waiting for an answer.

"Hotch," she says, and Spencer has never seen that particular expression on her face. It catches Hotch's attention as well, and makes him stand up.

"JJ?"

"There's a new case," she says, her smile weak. "I'll get the others."

She leaves, and Spencer looks at Hotch, who's looking at him.

"Alright, Reid, you're coming on the case. But if I suspect _anything_, I'm confining you to the police station and the hotel. Understand?"

Spencer can barely contain his delight as he nods in agreement.

The rest of the team is around the table when Hotch and Spencer enter the meeting room. JJ is fiddling with the remote, and as they sit down, she turns on the screen. Spencer is faced with a fairly disgusting picture of a man – he thinks – who's had his torso ripped open, the intestines falling out. His neck is an open wound. Almost looks like…

"Did the unsub let an animal attack him?" he hears Morgan asking, echoing his own thoughts. JJ nods to the case file, and Spencer's already done reading by the time Morgan exclaims next to him.

"Both human and animal saliva in the wounds? So what, he let his dog rip out the throat, and then continued himself?"

Spencer frowns in thought. "Well, it's not unheard of. The killer might identify more with an animal, and wants to explore his primal side. He's probably fascinated with the order of nature, where the strong prey on the weak. I mean, it says in the file that the victims were shredded by something that could only really be animal claws – even if tools were used, it would take almost inhuman strength to rip open a body like that," he muses, sifting through the pictures looking like they belong in a low-budget horror movie.

He looks up, and discovers that no-one is paying attention to him – everyone is looking at JJ. She's pale, and she tries to laugh it off.

"I talked with the chief of police, Dexter Brown. He says they know who the killer is."

Everyone sits up straighter and their expressions range from incredulity to impatience. "If they know who the killer is, why do they need our help?" Morgan asks pointedly, his hands hovering over the case file as if he's already on his way to dismiss it.

"They know who the killer is, but they don't know how to catch… him," JJ is saying. "They know the killer is going for certain victims, but they can't make the connection. Chief Brown told me his predecessor almost caught the killer forty-three years ago, but then… he escaped."

"And has been in hiding for forty-three years?" Rossi asks, looking pensive. "Could it be a son who's taken up the killing, as we've seen before?" Prentiss nods at that suggestion, but JJ shakes her head.

"No, it's the same… person. Chief Brown told me. The whole town knows."

She takes a deep breath, and Spencer feels an ominous chill race down his spine.

"The killer is a werewolf."


	2. Rainbow Warriors

Eye of the Hurricane

**Summary**: As the BAU team deals with a killer who doesn't seem quite human, Reid must deal with the aftermath of being raped, and sort out his relationship with Hotch. Sequel to one-shot "Shelter from Storm".

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Criminal Minds, nor do I make money from writing about it.

Un-beta'ed – any mistakes are my own.

**Warnings**: References to non-con Reid/OC. Rated M for the slashy stuff. Supernatural plot-elements.

* * *

**Chapter 2: Rainbow Warriors**

There's a minute of silence, and then the team explodes.

"A werewolf? Come on, JJ!" Morgan.

"What is it, a joke?" Prentiss.

"Small towns – they develop their own reality." Rossi.

"That's bullshit!" Morgan.

"Someone's watched _Dog Soldiers_ once too many." Garcia.

"This is crazy. Waste of our time." Prentiss.

"The killer probably spread the rumor himself, to create fright and confusion." Rossi.

Everyone's talking at once, and JJ is looking more uncomfortable by the second. Spencer doesn't know quite how to react.

Of course, he doesn't believe in werewolves. It's not something that exists. But the myth is persistent, and often used in movies and literature.

Spencer's never been a fan of scary movies. He can watch autopsy and crime scene photos while eating lasagna and he can watch and touch and examine human bodies torn to shreds without batting an eye. But something about movies frighten him. Ever since the girl next door – her name was Tricia, and 7-year old Spencer had a huge crush on the 15-year old girl – made him watch that old Frankenstein movie a night she babysat him, he's been averse to scary movies. He thinks it's because he sees so much real horror in the news and through his job – he doesn't need to watch it for entertainment. Besides, he knows real monsters exist, and they're called humans.

As he searches his brain, he's disappointed to find that he's sadly lacking any knowledge about werewolves, and he makes a mental note to read up on them.

Hotch suddenly cuts through the babbling of the team.

"Alright, quiet now. Quiet!" Silence falls, and Hotch stands up and takes hold of JJ's arm. "Sit down," he instructs, his voice curt but not unkind. "JJ, why is this unsettling you?"

They all look at JJ, who doesn't even bother trying to grin by now. Her eyes are glistening with tears, and her lips tremble.

"I know there's no such thing as werewolves. Of course," she snorts, but suddenly tears are rolling down her face, and she brings up a hand to angrily wipe them off. "I'm sorry. It's so stupid!" She gives a watery smile to Garcia, who reaches across the table with a pack of tissues. "Thanks. I'm just… I talked with the chief for half an hour. He's been in the force for over thirty years. He sounds like a solid, intelligent man. Not the sort who'd believe in fairies and inhuman monsters. And he's certain it's a… werewolf."

Hotch places a careful hand on her knee. "JJ – there is no such thing as werewolves."

"How can we know for sure?" There's a not-quite hysterical note in JJ's voice, and Spencer blinks in surprise. "I mean," JJ takes a calming breath, "people believe in all sorts of things. UFOs, ghosts, the paranormal. Even though it hasn't been proved scientifically."

Hotch is looking at her levelly, the rest of the team barely daring to breathe.

"JJ, we can't catch ghosts. We have to look at evidence, physical evidence. I am certain there's a perfectly solid, scientific explanation behind this, and someone with a little too vivid imagination has spread a rumor about something supernatural. And I'm sure Reid can regale you with facts of the psychological mechanisms behind mass suggestion and how myths come to life."

"Countless facts," Spencer pipes up, pleased that JJ sniffs and gives him a grateful smile.

Hotch pats her knee and the team breathe again as JJ wipes her eyes and no more tears fall. She fans her face with her hands, and looks at them all with a rueful smile.

"I'm sorry, guys. I didn't mean to freak out. I… have a vivid imagination. And just the thought of it…"

Morgan reaches over to squeeze her shoulder. "Hey, JJ, don't worry about it. We all have our triggers." The others nod in consent, and a few giggles and grins escape as Spencer mutters "elevators" under his breath.

"Regardless of these loose rumors and speculations, the police department of Carmine Falls has a body count of seven over the past two months, and no luck in tracking the killer." Hotch is looking around. "They have asked for our help, and I do agree that they need it. Human DNA was found on or in all the victims, meaning it's not just someone's guard dog getting out of control. We're leaving this afternoon. Garcia? Dig up anything you can on the town's history."

Garcia nods briskly, and with a last, worried look at JJ she hurries from the room.

Spencer catches Hotch's eyes and they look at each other for a moment. So much for talking later. Then Spencer breaks the contact, and instead finds himself looking into Rossi's bemused eyes.

Damn. Profilers.

JJ has assured Hotch that she is fine, and that she would really like to go along on this case – that they'll likely need all the help she can give them in doing damage control with the media. Spencer can just see the headlines: _"Werewolf on killing spree in backwater Kentucky!"_

They're all in the jet now. And Spencer barely has time to throw his coat into a seat and sit down before his hastily-gathered research reaches its boiling point and bubbles over and out of his mouth.

"It's actually a really fascinating phenomenon, werewolves," he hears himself saying with barely concealed enthusiasm, and he decides to ignore Morgan's groan – especially since Prentiss whacks his arm with her paper and hisses, "shh! It's interesting!" She turns rapt attention to Spencer, and he think she just needs a bowl of popcorn to be fully satisfied.

"Yes, thrill me and spook me, my genius!" comes Garcia's voice from the laptop on the desk. "And if you don't stop rolling your eyes, you're not gettin' any cyberlovin' from me, no matter how much you sweet-talk me," she admonishes Morgan.

Spencer clears his throat, and continues.

"A werewolf, also known as a lycanthrope, is a mythological or folkloric human with the ability to shape shift into an anthropomorphic wolf-like creature, either purposely, by being bitten by another werewolf, or after being placed under a curse. This transformation is often associated with the appearance of the full moon, as popularly noted by the medieval chronicler Gervase of Tilbury, and perhaps in earlier times among the ancient Greeks through the writings of Petronius.

The transmogrification process is often portrayed as painful in film and literature within the horror genre. The resulting wolf is typically cunning but merciless and prone to killing and eating people without compunction, regardless of the moral character of its human counterpart.

The werewolf is generally held as a European character, although its lore spread through the world in later times. Shape-shifters, similar to werewolves, are common in tales from all over the world, most notably amongst the Native Americans, though most of them involve animal forms other than wolves.

Many authors have speculated that werewolf and vampire legends may have been used to explain serial killings in less rational ages. This theory is given credence by the tendency of some modern serial killers to indulge in practices commonly associated with werewolves, such as cannibalism, mutilation, and cyclic attacks. The idea is well explored in Sabine Baring-Gould's work The Book of Werewolves.

Until the 20th century, wolf attacks on humans were an occasional, but widespread feature of life in Europe. Some scholars have suggested that it was inevitable that wolves, being the most feared predators in Europe, were projected into the folklore of evil shape shifters. This is said to be corroborated by the fact that areas devoid of wolves typically use different kinds of predator to fill the niche; werehyenas in Africa, weretigers in India, as well as werepumas and werejaguars of southern South America.

Some modern researchers have tried to explain the reports of werewolf behavior with recognized medical conditions. Dr Lee Illis of Guy's Hospital in London wrote a paper in 1963 entitled _On Porphyria and the Aetiology of Werewolves_, in which he argues that historical accounts on werewolves could have in fact been referring to victims of congenital porphyria, stating how the symptoms of photosensitivity, reddish teeth and psychosis could have been grounds for accusing a sufferer of being a werewolf. This is however argued against by Woodward, who points out how mythological werewolves were almost invariably portrayed as resembling true wolves, and that their human forms were rarely physically conspicuous as porphyria victims. Others have pointed out the possibility of historical werewolves having been sufferers of hypertrichosis, a hereditary condition manifesting itself in excessive hair growth. However, Woodward dismissed the possibility, as the rarity of the disease ruled it out from happening on a large scale, as werewolf cases were in medieval Europe. People suffering from Downs Syndrome have been suggested by some scholars to have been possible originators of werewolf myths. Woodward suggested rabies as the origin of werewolf beliefs, claiming remarkable similarities between the symptoms of that disease and some of the legends. Woodward focused on the idea that being bitten by a werewolf could result in the victim turning into one, which suggested the idea of a transmittable disease like rabies. However, the idea that lycanthropy could be transmitted in this way is not part of the original myths and legends and only appears in relatively recent beliefs.

Werewolves are often attributed super-human strength and senses, far beyond those of both wolves and men. They are often depicted as immune to damage caused by ordinary weapons, being vulnerable only to silver objects, such as a silver-tipped cane, bullet or blade; this attribute was first adopted cinematically in The Wolf Man. This negative reaction to silver is sometimes so strong that the mere touch of the metal on a werewolf's skin will cause burns. Current-day werewolf fiction almost exclusively involves lycanthropy being either a hereditary condition or being transmitted like an infectious disease by the bite of another werewolf. In some fiction, the power of the werewolf extends to human form, such as invulnerability, super-human speed and strength and falling on their feet from high falls. Also aggressiveness and animalistic urges may be harder to control - hunger, sexual harassment. Usually in these cases the abilities are diminished in human form. In other fictions it can even be cured by medicine men or even antidotes."

Spencer thinks he's given a general summary of the werewolf myths, and so he breaks off his speech. The team is staring at him.

"So, we're looking for a hairy guy with rabies? Shouldn't be hard to find in a town with 21,000 inhabitants," Prentiss remarks drily and Morgan snaps his jaw shut, allegedly to spare them from another witty remark.

Spencer shrugs, and looks at Prentiss.

"A lot of rumors about inhuman or mythical creatures actually stem from medical conditions. Just think of an albino – we modern people might just look twice if we saw one, but if one walked into an inn in 1700-century France, it would have been quartered and diced."

As the rest of the team read through the case file one more time, Reid pulls out his phone and entertains himself with reading up on werewolf myths on the internet.

* * *

A patrol car is on the tarmac, and two police officers are waiting for them. Despite the chilly temperature, the evening sun is bright, and they are both wearing dark shades. The elder of the pair removes them immediately, though, as the team make their way down the stairs, and after a nudge the younger follows the example.

Spencer feels himself relaxing slightly at the welcoming and almost eager expressions on both their faces. A case is always easier when the local police are thankful to have the BAU there, as opposed to when they might feel patronized or demoted by the presence of the FBI.

The older officer – supposedly Chief Brown – steps forward. In an almost ironic opposition to his name, he is pale with an unruly shock of silver hair. He is big and burly, with a rugged face. When he speaks, Spencer is surprised to hear a gentle and pleasant voice.

"Agent Jareau! I'm so glad to see you all here."

He grasps Prentiss' hand and shakes it eagerly, and the other officer chuckles when Prentiss smiles disarmingly and beckons JJ forward instead.

"Oh, sorry – I'm a bit frazzled."

JJ smiles tightly, but shakes the chief's hand warmly. "We understand, Chief Brown. This is agent Hotchner, our unit chief."

Hotch's hand is engulfed in the chief's big paw, and he makes the usual introductions. "Agents Prentiss, Rossi, Morgan and Dr. Reid."

Spencer feels both officers examine him curiously for a moment, but he's used to that, really. He wants to touch his neck, make sure there are no finger marks… but he controls the urge, instead watching as the other officer shakes hands with the rest of the team. "Everyone calls me Dex," the chief is saying. "We're not so formal here. This is my deputy, Al Black." Contrary to the chief, Al Black lives up to his name – in fact, he reminds Spencer of one of those actors who's done a lot of action movies. The ones Morgan really 'dig'.

"Black and Brown, huh?" Rossi asks, looking amused. Al Black displays a pearly white row of teeth in a grin.

"Yeah, we get that a lot! We also have an Officer Greene, and miss White at the reception. They call us the Rainbow Warriors." He laughs heartily, and it's contagious enough to make Morgan laugh along with him, and Prentiss and Rossi chuckle. Hotch never laughs, and Spencer is not supposed to get this kind of humor – though he does wonder if they actually know that the Rainbow Warrior was bombed and sank, which would make it an ominous nickname. He doesn't muse this out loud, though – after years of groans and odd stares, he's realized it isn't really polite social behavior to be literal.

JJ is standing a bit behind the others, and though she has a polite smile fixed on her face, Spencer notices that her eyes are empty, unfocused.

"We figured we'd take you to the hotel – it's a bit too late to fill you in now, and you're probably looking forward to some sleep."

Spencer almost wants to smile – obviously, these officers don't realize how often the BAU has arrived somewhere late in the evening and still gone straight to work. But he also notices that behind their friendliness and good humor, both men look worn and exhausted. Perhaps not so strange, in a town where the occasional hit-and-run or grocery theft qualify as a scandal to be talked about for months. Seven murders must be taxing on everyone.

"The local car rental had your cars delivered to the hotel. Black and I will come show you the way to the station. Is 7 am too early?" Spencer does smile this time at the chief's worried tone, as does the rest of the team.

"Rest assured, we'll be awake and ready by then," Prentiss assures the chief, and he looks relieved.

"Good! Let's go to the hotel, then."

Chief Brown and Deputy Black drop them off at the hotel, which is surprisingly large and modern-looking and not small and quaint like everything else in the town.

"Yeah, t'was only built twelve years ago," the clerk, a fresh-faced, gum-chewing young guy with an unruly mane of brown hair and lot of freckles, confirms when Rossi asks him. "Only had a small B&B before, which was good enough since we din' have a lot of visitors. But then they built the large golf course only a few miles from here – Greenfields Golf. You heard of it?" When they all give sufficiently apologetic grimaces, he looks slightly disappointed. "Well, if y'all get a chance to play, you should. Y'all in town for other business, then?" he asks, finally catching up on their formal clothes and _federal air_, as many have referred to the aura that seems to surround agents.

"FBI," Hotch replies, placing his credentials on the desk. The clerk's eyes widen in awe, and he looks at them with renewed interest. Particularly Prentiss, which elicits a stern look from Rossi.

"FBI, wow. You here because of the killings? You should go see my grandma – she's totally into this whole werewolf business. Always told us one of her workers was killed by it fifty or sum' years back – 'cause, we all thought she was a bit crazy."

Until now – the words are left unsaid.

"We might," Hotch replies gravely, probably making the kid's night if Spencer should judge from the excited shine in the green eyes. "For now, we'll require three rooms, with single beds."

Spencer shares a quick look with Morgan – either Strauss has been on Hotch's case about the budget and expenses again, or Hotch wants JJ to share a room with Prentiss. Spencer is leaning towards the latter – Hotch is usually not intimidated by Strauss and her threats.

In the pit of his stomach, Spencer has a small hope that maybe Hotch wants to be alone with him. But he quickly disregards that thought, knowing how utterly unprofessional that would be.

Therefore, he does his very best to hide his small shock as Hotch hands the two keycards to room 312 to Morgan and Rossi, and says, "Reid, you're with me. JJ and Prentiss, you're in 319." Spencer looks at the card Hotch gives him. 411 – he hopes it's not directly over 312. Judging by the disapproving set of Rossi's mouth, the senior agent will be on the lookout for any discrepancies. Spencer would not think it beneath him to drill holes in the ceiling.

JJ is looking relieved as she smiles slightly at Emily, who returns it with a quick squeeze to the younger woman's arm.

Spencer really does like Emily.

"Where do we go for some good food around here?" Morgan asks the clerk – his small badge proclaims his name to be Jerry Coleman.

"I'm afraid the hotel's restaurant is closed for the night," Jerry says apologetically, and grimaces as Morgan looks at the clock in the lobby, whose hands show the time to be a little after eight. "Yeah, we close down early. Small town," he explains with a chuckle. "But there's The Diner – just a few miles from here."

They get the address, and soon arrive at a cosy-looking small diner which is, in fact, named _The Diner_.

"Original," Morgan snorts, and Rossi laughs. "Easy to tell you grew up in Chicago!"

"As long as the food's good, it could be named _The Dump_ for all I care – I'm hungry," Emily states, and they enter the diner to the curious stares of three locals. Two are sitting together, their worn baseball-caps pulled into their eyes – but they still manage to have their eyes fixed on the TV in the corner, which is showing some game. Baseball, Spencer thinks – sports are not his force.

The last person in the diner is a woman, who's sitting at the bar – and drinking accordingly, judging by her swaying attempt to pull herself upright.

"Hey there! I'm Arlene, welcome to The Diner." A middle-aged woman approaches them. She's the epitome of a diner owner, with her friendly smile, bleached hair and too-tight apron. But the food is good, and the agents happily dig in.

"So, seen anything suspicious and hairy?" Morgan asks through his BBQ-burger, and Prentiss smirks and strokes a hand over his bald head. "Only you, Morgan." JJ laughs along with the others at Morgan's indignant, "hey, woman!" – Spencer notices she's just picking at her food, though. She catches his eyes on her plate and sends him a quick smile, demonstratively spearing a tomato.

"Seriously, though," Morgan says, though it's hard to take him serious with a big dash of ketchup on his cheek, "did you notice how the chief and Black didn't mention the werewolf at all? It was like a big, pink elephant in the room."

Spencer sucks Mt. Dew through his straw – sweetened with three extra packets of sugar, to Prentiss' consternation – and watches Hotch frown.

"Maybe they changed their minds on that, and regret telling JJ about it?"

"You think they found other evidence?" Rossi asks, and Hotch shakes his head. "No, they would have told us that and not have us wait till the morning. No, I mean, maybe Chief Brown got caught up in the heat of the moment when he called JJ, and told her of the local speculations – and now he wants to forget about it. I think we shouldn't mention it unless he does." Spencer is fixed with a stern look, and he manages to look surprised.

"What, Hotch? I'm able to control myself, you know." He pouts when the others laugh at that, and crosses his arms defensively. "I promise, I won't say a word about werewolves, unless someone brings it up. But it's fascinating, really! The FBI even has a few cases of recorded werewolf-spottings. One occurred in Wisconsin in 1936, when a man spotted a strange, hairy creature that stood erect at six feet tall, with a muzzle and the features of a dog."

"He probably had a hangover and looked himself in the mirror," Morgan chuckles, and Spencer rolls his eyes but knows when to shut up.

* * *

"Goodnight. See you at breakfast, 6.30," Hotch says as the four others exit on the third floor. The women reply, Morgan just waves a tired hand, and Rossi is the last to step out of the elevator. Spencer sees him send Hotch a warning look, and then a tiny nod of his head. "Night, you two."

Only Rossi can make the simple words _you two_ sound like such a threat.

Spencer throws his bag on one of the beds, and his coat over a chair, before stretching, groaning as his spine pops in several places.

"I have a feeling this will be one of the weirdest cases we've ever worked," he says, hands already working on loosening the tie around his neck.

At least no-one touched him today – small victory for brown-and-russet.

"Hotch," he says when there's no answer, and he turns to watch the other agent. His hands freeze on the knot of his tie. "H-hotch?" Dark eyes are staring at him with an intensity that makes his stomach tighten in equal measures of anxiety and excitement.

Spencer remains frozen as Hotch slowly walks towards him, stopping when there's only a hand's breadth between them.

"Spencer." The low-pitched, dark voice shoots straight to his groin, and his stomach does a few flip-flops in agreement. He can only stare at Hotch's hand, which is moving towards his face. It hesitates just before making contact, and Spencer quickly nods at the silent question in Hotch's eyes.

"It's okay," he whispers, and then he closes his eyes as the warm, slightly calloused fingertips caress his cheek, his lips, moving as lightly as butterfly-wings. The other hand rests on his arm, and he can feel Hotch closing the small distance between them, can feel the warmth of the other man's body seeping through his clothes.

Warm breath wafts over his face, and he only has a split second to prepare for the kiss that follows. He's frozen for a moment as soft, yet strong, lips move over his own, but then he feels himself melt into the kiss. His heart beats quickly, he can feel his face becoming flushed – and it's silly, really, because it's not exactly the first time he's kissed Hotch. But this time it's gentle and unhurried, and there's not a note of desperation, a stressor of needing to finish before the return of…

Spencer forces himself to push the memories away for now. Instead he focuses on Hotch, and himself, here and now – he places a tentative hand on Hotch's shoulder and the other on the back of his neck, stroking the short hair there. Hotch responds by making a small, satisfied sound and drawing Spencer closer to him, the hand on his arm sliding to the small of his back, pressing them tightly together.

The kiss deepens, and as Hotch's tongue fills his mouth, Spencer can feel something hard pressing into his hip. For some reason, he doesn't think it's Hotch's gun – and he can feel his own body tightening in response.

Suddenly, it's too much, and Spencer turns his head away with a gasp, his hand pressing on Hotch's shoulder. Hotch immediately steps away, his expression apologetic, and their hands fall away from each other.

"I'm sorry," Spencer hurries to say. "It's just… a little too much right now." He can feel himself relaxing when Hotch doesn't appear to be mad.

"No, I should apologize," Hotch says with a frown. "I didn't mean to push you."

"You didn't!" Spencer counters, reaching out to once again touch Hotch's shoulder. "I guess I'm just—overwhelmed by my own response," he admits wryly, biting his lip. Hotch is smiling a little, and rests his own hand on Spencer's.

"Glad I still have it in me," he says just as wryly, and Spencer is smiling with him now.

"Maybe we should just get a good night's sleep," Hotch suggests, and Spencer nods in agreement – though he knows that he won't.


	3. Nightmares

Eye of the Hurricane

**Summary**: As the BAU team deals with a killer who doesn't seem quite human, Reid must deal with the aftermath of being raped, and sort out his relationship with Hotch. Sequel to one-shot "Shelter from Storm".

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Criminal Minds, nor do I make money from writing about it.

Un-beta'ed – any mistakes are my own.

**Warnings**: References to non-con Reid/OC. Rated M for the slashy stuff. Supernatural plot-elements.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Nightmares**

Spencer is looking into the mirror. His reflection looks back at him with flushed cheeks and worried eyes. He lets his forehead rest on the cool tiles next to the mirror, breathing evenly for a minute until his heart has stopped its erratic beating.

_Get a grip, Spencer. It was just a kiss_.

An intense, toe-curling kiss that has left his stomach in knots, and his heart and brain in conflict with each other. His heart beckons him to go out there and ask Hotch for more – but his brain is screaming facts of suppression, minimization and caution.

Spencer sighs, and lets his brain win the battle. It usually does – it's big enough to outsmart his heart any day.

He brushes his teeth and splashes cold water in his face, changes into an old, blue _FBI_ t-shirt and the sweatpants he usually wears to bed, before returning to the hotel room. Hotch is on one of the beds, flipping through the case file with a frown on his face. As he sees Spencer, he picks up his bag and goes into the bathroom.

Spencer collapses on the other bed. He spends a few minutes going over his newly acquired werewolf-lore, hoping to divert his thought enough to sleep. Tonight, he'd rather dream of howling monsters and mutilated bodies, than of Harris and Hotch.

Hotch returns, and Spencer focuses all his energy into not looking at the other man, who mercifully has put on a t-shirt, but not so mercifully is otherwise only clad in his boxers.

"Do you want to read, or should I turn off the light?" Hotch asks, and Spencer shakes his head.

"No, that's fine. No reading tonight."

The light disappears, but the room is still softly illuminated by the light from the small hallway. Hotch knows Spencer doesn't like sleeping in total darkness. Spencer knows Hotch hates sleeping with any light on, and he tries to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat.

"Good night," Hotch says softly, and Spencer has to clear his throat before replying with an equally soft, "night".

He can hear Hotch's breath becoming even and heavy within ten minutes.

The last time Spencer looks at his watch, it says 1:34.

* * *

He's back in the basement. Harris is stroking his face with a knife, calling him _pretty boy, filthy whore, my pretty boy, fucking filthy slut_.

Spencer fights him this time. Harris laughs, and fires the gun in his hand. Spencer watches as in slow-motion how the bullet sails through the air, and buries itself in Hotch's forehead. Blood splashes on the wall.

He screams.

Harris suddenly growls, inhumanly, and when Spencer looks at him, Harris' eyes are yellow and terrible, and his face is twisting in pain as it elongates into a muzzle. Claws spring from Harris' fingers, and a searing pain shoots through Spencer's abdomen as Harris rips open his stomach. The last thing he sees is the werewolf bending its head to slurp and gnaw at the intestines spilling out…

"Reid! Spencer, wake up! Spencer!"

Hands are shaking him, holding him, and Spencer fights them, screaming and flailing. He can feel the pain in his stomach, and Hotch is dead, and Harris is _eating_ him! And he's hurt, he's hurt, he's hu— he doesn't realize he's screaming the words until something shakes him.

"Spencer! Where are you hurt? Tell me!"

He suddenly realizes he's in the hotel room. It must have been a dream. Hotch is there – but then he can't be dead?

"Hotch!" he gasps, and the relief breaks him. He can hear himself sobbing uncontrollably, but it's as if he can't feel his own body. His brain is screaming at him, trying to regain control.

Suddenly, strong arms are around him, holding him close to a warm body, rocking him back and forth. Spencer throws his arms around Hotch, gripping tightly at the t-shirt under his hands, trying to calm himself.

"Don't go, don't go, don't go…" It's a minute before he realizes the begging, broken words are emerging from his own mouth, and another minute before he realizes Hotch is talking to him, assuring him he's not going anywhere, holding him even closer.

"My stomach!" he exclaims when he can talk through the sobs. "It's open, he hurt me, it hurts!"

A warm hand presses into his stomach, and rubs it soothingly.

"You're not hurt, Spencer. It was a dream. Here," the warm hand tries to disengage one of his own from its death-grip, and when he lets go, it is pressed to his own stomach. There's no blood, no pain. Spencer feels the physical layer of terror that has clung to him until now leave, and he sags against Hotch's chest.

"I'm sorry I woke you," he says, hating how shaky his own voice sounds. He hopes Hotch won't let go of him.

"It's okay," Hotch says, the hand on his squeezing it lightly, the other rubbing soothingly at his back. "Tell me what you dreamt," he says, and Spencer doesn't really want to, but he's powerless to stop the words from spilling.

"It—it was Harris. He… turned into a werewolf. And he ripped my stomach and… started eating. And he shot you. In the head. There was blood everywhere." He can feel himself shaking with reaction, and Hotch pulls away slightly so he can look at Spencer. His expression is calm, reassuring, and Spencer feels a bit stupid.

"It was just a dream, Spencer," he repeats, and Spencer nods, and then exhales a shaky breath.

"But he could have killed you. I don't know what I would have done," and he's embarrassed to feel more tears forming and spilling, making his face wet and his breathing labored.

"But he didn't kill me. I'm right here," Hotch says, with a small smile, wiping tears from Spencer's face. Spencer nods, sniffs, and when the tears continue to fall, Hotch leans down and gently kisses his cheek, his jaw, catching them with his mouth.

Spencer isn't quite sure whether he's consciously turning his own head, or whether Hotch is moving, but suddenly their lips are meeting, and Spencer feels the passion explode through his body, fueled by his body's response to what it believes was a near miss with death.

He moans and whimpers and clings to Hotch as they fall back into the sheets, grinding his hips up into the ones pinning him to the bed.

"Spencer, stop, we shouldn't…" Hotch protests are cut short when Spencer forces his tongue into the still speaking mouth, and he tries to say, "please, please" through the kiss, raking his nails over Hotch's back, tearing at the t-shirt.

And then Hotch is suddenly busy pulling down Spencer's pants and underwear, kissing him with an intensity that almost scares him. Almost – because it also sends uncontrollably tingles and sparks through Spencer's blood, and he vaguely registers Hotch's t-shirt ripping as he tears as it, he feels more than hears the vibration of Hotch's groan against his neck.

They're both naked now, and Spencer thinks his skin must be on fire from the heat of Hotch's body, and the fire within his own blood. He cries out as he feels a hardness sliding over his own, creating unbelievably sweet friction, and his hips rise and meet the heavy weight of Hotch holding him down. And it feels so safe, so comforting, to have all that warm weight on top of him – not like…

Spencer grits his teeth as a stray thought suddenly clears the haze of passion, and he looks up into Hotch's flushed face and wary expression.

"Spencer, are you sure…"

He falters for a mere moment, trying to analyze himself, weighing whether he should call if all off before it's too late. But Hotch moves his hips ever so slightly, and his groin tightens almost unbearably in response, and he likes the way Hotch is looking at him, gaze heavy with lust even through his reservations, and his heart almost feels too big for his chest, pounding as if it wants to make its way out, and Spencer, for once, lets it overrule his brain.

"Yes," he breathes, deliberately rolling his hips, pleased to see Hotch close his eyes and moan in reaction. "Maybe… just like this," he adds softly, clinging to Hotch, craving the closeness, but knowing his own limitations. He's not ready for more, not now.

Hotch nods, strokes his face, taking some of his own weight on his elbow. Spencer feels like smiling at the consideration, and he does, watching Hotch's expression growing unbelievably tender in response. He gulps down a breath and changes the smile into a grimace of pleasure as Hotch grinds his hips down. Their mouths meet again, and for several minutes Spencer is lost in the slow, languid rhythm of their bodies, the sweet torture of the throbbing hardness sliding over his own.

Spencer can't take the sensation for long, though, before he can feel his climax slowly building up, his body becoming taut and frustrated with the slow rhythm.

"Hotch," he hears himself whining, and he digs his fingers into the firm flesh under his hands, letting them slide up to the small of Hotch's back, which is slick with sweat. Hotch groans, but instead of increasing his speed, he stops, and Spencer is panting, ready to beg.

"Spencer," Hotch is kissing him urgently now, and Spencer feels him break the kiss, whisper into his ear, asking if he can take Spencer in his mouth, if it's okay.

Spencer can only nod mutely, his body tensing so much he's afraid he'll explode the moment Hotch touches him. Hotch is slowly working his way down, though, his tongue lingering over Spencer's nipples, which makes him squirm as it tickles a bit too much to be comfortable. Hotch is kissing his stomach, biting gently into his hipbones, and Spencer's breath comes out in shallow bursts.

Then a warm breath ghosts over his arousal, and Spencer cries out as a warm tongue slowly licks up his length.

"No, no, not yet," he hears himself say, beg, and Hotch must understand, because he slides lower to nibble at Spencer's thighs, his hands' gentle pressure making Spencer spread his legs. His brain tells him he should be blushing self-consciously, but his body is too far gone to care about the fact that Hotch, his boss and only lover by strange circumstances and something else Spencer can't label, is right now gently sucking at his scrotum, which feels hard enough to spontaneously combust.

Spencer feels a light touch to his entrance, a finger gently massaging the tight opening. He moans and pushes his hips slightly forward, trusting Hotch to not do more than he's comfortable with. And even though he's not yet experienced it, he's read enough about stimulation of the prostate during oral sex to want to experience it, badly.

Hotch is stroking him gently with one hand, but Spencer groans and bats at the hand. He's so close, so close, and he wants Hotch's mouth. What's the man doing with it, anyway?

Spencer gets the answer a second later, when the fingers disappear from his entrance, and something warm and wet and hot replace them, and—oh god, it's Hotch tongue, and he's actually licking…

Spencer is sure he'll be mortified by embarrassment later at the sound that escapes him right then, a needy, keening wail. His hips trash wildly as his brain bombards him with facts and thoughts and _oh god, this is not sanitary at all_, but his body shoots down every intellectual attack with a fire attack through his blood, and _oh god, it's so hot, so hot_… Spencer doesn't know whether seconds or minutes have passed when the wet onslaught mercifully retreats, and is replaced with a hard finger slowly sliding into him.

He almost screams when his arousal is finally engulfed by the warm, wet mouth, and he fists his hands tightly in the sheets to keep from grabbing Hotch's head and shoving it down. Even though no-one's ever done this to him before, he has a strong feeling it wouldn't be the polite thing to do.

The finger inside him curls suddenly and Spencer thinks he could have read a thousand books and yet not be prepared for the feeling. It's as if his whole body changes its point of gravity, and he reaches the point of no return and is powerless to stop the wildfire cursing through his veins until is centers in his groin.

Hotch is swallowing him down, and it feels as if his tongue is everywhere, and he barely gets in a few good sucks before Spencer explodes.

He does scream this time, and if Hotch wasn't holding down his hips, he'd probably choke the man. Instead, his body tightens unbearably as his climax washes through him, and they are both frozen in time as he spills his white-hot fluids on Hotch's tongue.

Spencer is shaking as he finally floats down from his ecstatic high, and Hotch presses into his side and holds him, strokes his chest, kisses his hair. Spencer turns his head and tentatively kisses him; he can taste himself on Hotch's tongue, and a small moan escapes him.

"Oh, wow," he says, unable to come up with anything more original. Hotch is smiling, and looking slightly smug as he says, "beats reading about it, huh?"

Spencer feels light and careless in a way he hasn't experienced before, and he giggles and smiles like an idiot and replies, "like you wouldn't believe."

Hotch smirks, and then tightens his hand on Spencer's chest, and when his hips press into Spencer's, he feels himself blushing in mortification.

"Oh! You didn't… I'm sorry, I'm so selfish…" Hotch cuts off his apology with a kiss, and places Spencer's hand on his arousal.

"Relax, Spencer. I was enjoying myself immensely," and Spencer blushes even harder now, "but I wouldn't object to a little attention."

Spencer looks at the erection in his hand, and he gives it a tentative stroke. Hotch moans and closes his eyes, and Spencer marvels at the feeling of silk over steel, the beat of pulse beneath his fingers.

"Uhm, do you want me to… use my mouth?" he asks timidly, unsure of the social rules of retribution in these situations. Hotch looks at him for a moment, his eyes dark.

"Next time," he replies, and Spencer feels a not entirely unpleasant tingling in his stomach at the prospect of there being a next time – and at the same time, he can't help but feel a tad relieved. He thinks he can't possibly live up to what Hotch just did to him.

"Spencer, don't think so much," Hotch groans, exasperated, as his hips buck into Spencer's frozen hand.

"Sorry. Uhm…" Spencer is blushing again – damn having a fair complexion – and Hotch takes mercy on him and pulls him down for another kiss, letting his own hand wrap around Spencer's and start a firm, stroking rhythm.

Spencer sucks at Hotch's tongue, and speeds up his strokes when he feels Hotch's hips bucking up. Hotch suddenly breaks the kiss and clutches at Spencer's arm with his free hand, and he looks into Spencer's eyes as his climax overtakes him, whispering Spencer's name over and over again as he pulses warm, pearly strands all over their hands and his stomach.

Spencer watches Hotch close his eyes for a moment, his face soft and relaxed, and he doesn't think he's ever seen Aaron Hotchner so open, vulnerable. He's not sure what to do with all the emotion that seems to be lodged up in his chest, so he focuses on his hand, now resting on Hotch's stomach and covered in the other man's sticky fluids. Following his sudden impulse, he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks tentatively. At the sound of a strangled groan, he looks down at Hotch, who is looking at him with a peculiar, pained expression.

"Spencer, you'll be the death of me."

Spencer catches the emotion behind the words, and he smiles happily.

The rest of the night, he sleeps, and he only dreams of dark eyes and gentle touches.


	4. Storytelling

Eye of the Hurricane

**Summary**: As the BAU team deals with a killer who doesn't seem quite human, Reid must deal with the aftermath of being raped, and sort out his relationship with Hotch. Sequel to one-shot "Shelter from Storm".

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Criminal Minds, nor do I make money from writing about it.

Un-beta'ed – any mistakes are my own.

**Warnings**: References to non-con Reid/OC. Rated M for the slashy stuff. Supernatural plot-elements.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Storytelling**

Aaron awakes at 6 am when his phone starts vibrating silently. He's always been a light sleeper, and doesn't need the sound to wake up.

He automatically reaches for the phone, and is surprised when his movement is obstructed by something warm pressing down on him – and then he looks at Reid's still sleeping form, and everything rushes back to him.

The kiss, Reid's nightmare, what followed after… Aaron watches Reid's face, which is relaxed in sleep. He knows the other agent hasn't been sleeping much since Harris. He can tell from the dark circles under Reid's eyes, the way his movements were just a bit too slow the day before, and not sharp and restless as they usually are.

He is wondering whether he should dredge up a substantial amount of guilt over letting himself be talked into getting so physical with Reid – though truthfully, it didn't take all that much begging from Reid's side – when Reid suddenly stirs and opens his eyes. Aaron holds his breath as Reid spends a few seconds focusing, his expression at first slightly confused, but then alert.

"Hey," Aaron says, and Reid's eyes snap to his face – at first looking surprised, and then melting into something else.

"Hey," Reid replies, and his voice is rough. Aaron remembers the voice at first calling out in horror and fright, and then in passion, and despite himself, he can feel his body responding.

_Stop it_, he tells himself firmly, and a vivid image of Rossi's disapproving face deflates him quickly.

"How are you feeling?" he asks Reid, wincing inwardly as the words remind him of another situation he doesn't want to compare to this one. Reid is smiling a tiny smile, and there's a faint flush to his face as he replies, "fine. A little… beside myself. But it's been weeks since I got more than a few hours' solid sleep," he says, confirming Aaron's suspicion. "How's your leg?"

The question takes Aaron by surprise – but as if it was just waiting for attention, the bullet-wound in his thigh throbs a little. He shrugs. "It's fine. It was a clean shot – I was only in the hospital for a day," he reminds Reid, and watches the boy pout slightly.

"And only on sick leave for two," Reid mutters, and Aaron snorts.

"Yes, it was relatively uncomplicated, compared to…" Aaron cuts himself off, anxiously looking at Reid to gauge his reaction. Reid puts his head on Aaron's shoulder, his fingers tracing an idle pattern on Aaron's chest.

"Compared to my mental traumas," he continues wryly. "Yeah, I know."

"Spencer," Aaron says, and is again surprised at the soft shine the boy's eyes take on whenever Aaron uses his name, "I really didn't mean to push you last night. I… feel guilty," he admits, his body tense as he waits for Reid's reply.

Reid is silent for a moment, his fingers continuing their soft glide over Aaron's chest.

"Do you regret it?" he finally asks, softly, tilting his head to look at Aaron's face.

"No," Aaron answers immediately, and Reid is smiling again. "No, I don't regret it. But I'm worried that it was too soon for you. You're still…" He searches for a word, but Reid beats him to it.

"Healing? I don't know. I mean, obviously I've been through an unpleasant experience." Aaron almost rolls his eyes at the understatement of the year. "But," Reid continues, his voice almost determined enough to convince Aaron, "I trust you. And I wanted this," he says, gesturing to them lying entwined on the bed. "Enjoyed it. Obviously," he adds, flushing again. Aaron can't help but feel a primitive spark of pride, thinking about how much Reid **did** indeed enjoy it, him.

"Will you tell me if you feel otherwise?" Aaron asks, and Reid nods – a little too quickly for Aaron's liking. But he's satisfied for now, and he lets himself have the luxury of a few moments with Reid, neither of them speaking, but their hearts beating slowly and evenly together.

Then he sighs, and stretches. "It's ten past six. We're having breakfast in twenty minutes. Do you want to shower first?"

Reid nods, and slides out of the bed. Aaron enjoys the sight of him walking to the bathroom, in spite, or perhaps because, of the flush he can see is spreading on Reid's neck even from behind.

When he hears the shower running, he gets out of bed and quickly finds the clothes he's going to wear. Then he sends a text message to Jessica, telling her he doesn't know how long he'll be away, and asking her to give Jack a big kiss from him.

Reid showers quickly, and when he emerges from the bathroom with a towel wrapped around the waist, Aaron is picking up his t-shirt from the night before. It's almost torn into two pieces, and Aaron is secretly amused to see the way Reid is staring at it while turning crimson.

"I'm sorry," the boy blurts out, and Aaron shrugs casually.

"Don't worry – never liked that t-shirt anyway. It died for a worthy cause."

He pushes past Reid, who's still stuttering an apology, and only allows himself to smile once he's in the shower.

When he returns to the room, Reid is dressed in one of his usual sweater vests. Aaron hopes Morgan isn't going to try the static electricity trick on JJ or Prentiss – they'll make the werewolf look like an amateur when they tear him to pieces.

Aaron dresses quickly, and then he draws Reid into an embrace. He looks surprised, but willingly enough put his arms around Aaron, his head resting on Aaron's shoulder.

"Rossi already suspects something. If you come down wearing that goofy smile, he's going to have me fired," Aaron says wryly, and Reid pulls back his head and doesn't really look apologetic as he says, "sorry. I won't act out of order." He sounds a bit put out, and Aaron gives him a soft, lingering kiss.

"I know. I didn't think you would. But you know they're all profilers."

Reid grimaces a smile. "Don't I know. I'll tell them I have nightmares. They won't ask me about that."

Aaron nods, and slowly slides his hands away from Reid, surprised to discover how reluctant he is to do so. Reid smiles again, and nods towards the door.

"Why don't you go down first – I'll follow in a minute."

And so Aaron steps into the large dining hall, whose only other guests are an older couple seated in the opposite end of the room from Rossi and Morgan.

"Hey, Hotch," Morgan greets, and waves a strip of bacon. "Hope you're hungry. The buffet's huge." Rossi just nods at him, as he's chewing on something, but Aaron doesn't miss the flicker of the senior agent's eyes between himself and the door.

"Morning, Hotch. Where's Reid?" JJ and Prentiss each pull out a chair, and JJ looks curiously at him. Aaron shrugs.

"He'll be along in a few minutes. Kid sleeps like the dead – I even tried luring him with coffee." He smiles indulgently as they all chuckle, and then he goes to fill a plate, JJ close behind him. Prentiss remains in her seat a moment longer, answering a question from Rossi. Aaron thinks it had to do with the relative merits of foregoing cheese and bacon for wholegrain and oats. He knows Rossi hates the fact that his age no longer allows him to eat just about anything.

"How are you, JJ?" he asks, looking closely at his blonde colleague. She smiles a little, and nods.

"I'm better than yesterday. Really. Emily and I talked for a while yesterday. I know I freaked out, but I can handle it. Of course there's a natural explanation to all this." Aaron observes her steady hands as she dishes out scrambled eggs to the both of them, and her eyes which are clear and calm, and he nods. "Good. I'm glad. But if you start to feel anxious, or anything, come to me. Alright?"

"I will, sir." He hates it when they call him sir, but especially JJ has a hard time shaking off the habit. "Morning, Spence!" she calls, and Aaron's eyes swivel to the left to look at Reid entering the room.

Aaron returns to the table in time to hear Morgan asking, "you alright, kid? You look like you need coffee, and lots of it." Reid shrugs and smiles slightly.

"Yeah. I just don't sleep well these days. Nightmares," he offers, and the simple explanation has the desired effect as Morgan purses his lips in a show of understanding, and claps Reid's shoulder.

"They have really great apple strudel – I'm sure one of those will wake you right up!"

Prentiss groans. "For breakfast, Morgan? Where do you pack all that food?"

"Yeah, wouldn't you like to know, baby," Morgan replies, and Prentiss flicks a bran flake from Rossi's plate at his head.

"Don't 'baby' me. I'm not Garcia or one of your nightclub dates." Her voice is without rancor, and she smiles. Morgan smiles as well, and mutters a "you wish" under his breath.

Rossi just rolls his eyes and eats his yoghurt. Though Aaron sees that both he and Prentiss are looking surreptitiously at the pastry on Morgan's plate.

* * *

Chief Brown and Al Black arrive at precisely 7 am.

They follow the patrol car through the small town, until they come to a stop in front of a medium-sized yellow brick house, which looks more like an old train station than a police department.

"Oh yeah, it used to be the main station," the Chief explains when Prentiss asks him about the history of the building. "The station was moved, oh what, 'bout twenty-five years ago, and we moved in here. Well, here's our front desk," and he waves to the large desk which is manned by a plump, pleasant-looking woman in her fifties. "That's Miss White, our receptionist and mother hen of all the young officers. She makes the best coffee in the state," he says with a wink at Miss White, who shushes him with a delighted giggle.

"Oh, Dex, you're such a charmer! Don't believe a word he says, that man – but do come see me if you need anything at all," she instructs. Aaron can tell Reid perks up slightly at the thought of more coffee.

The Chief leads them to a small-ish office in the back of the building. "Sorry we can't offer you a larger room," he says, and frowns at the round table as if he blames it for the general lack of space. There's exactly room for six chairs, and two large whiteboards are crammed into the corner. A large window makes sure the room is well-lit, and there are blinds on the glass pane that makes up more than half the façade to the main offices.

"We've certainly had worse," Morgan reassures the man. "This will do fine."

The Chief lights up, and he gestures towards the door.

"You're of course welcome to use space in the main room if you need it. If you want to settle in, I'll give you a briefing in ten minutes."

Aaron nods, and the Chief exits. The team busy themselves with putting up photos of the seven victims, and Reid is pinning a map to the wall.

A knock sounds from the open door, and they all look at the officer who's popping his head inside. He's in his thirties, dirty blond and undeniably attractive, especially as he smiles boyishly to display a dimple.

"Agent Jareau?" JJ steps forward, and smiles at him.

"I'm detective Greene. I've been speaking with the press so far. Dex – the Chief – hates dealing with them. But he told me you're the expert."

"Ah – the fourth rainbow warrior," Prentiss says, and Greene laughs good-naturedly.

"Yeah – kinda hard to shake that nick. Does make for a good one-liner, though," he says with a wink to Prentiss. Both she and JJ laugh, and Aaron makes a mental note to remind JJ of Will at the first chance he gets. A look at Rossi tells him that Prentiss won't need to be reminded of anything.

"Anyway," Greene says, stepping out of the doorway, "Chief told me he's ready when you are. For the briefing."

Aaron nods to the team, and they file out of the office and into the main room. It looks like a typical police station, albeit smaller than most places they've been to. The Chief's office is in the back, also separated from the main room with mostly glass façades. There are about a dozen police officers in the main room and Aaron suspects most, if not all, of the force is on duty.

The Chief emerges from his office, laughing with Al Black, but his face turns somber as he beckons the agents forward.

"Alright, everyone, gather round." The police officers nearest to him simply swivel their chairs around, and the others gather in the background.

"This is the agents from the FBI's Behavioral Analysis Unit. Agents Hotchner, Rossi, Morgan, Prentiss, Jareau and Reid. Oh, _Doctor_ Reid," he amends, remembering Aaron's introduction from the night before. Reid looks slightly uncomfortable at the extra attention the correction gives him, but he nods politely along with the others. "It's an honor to have you here," the Chief says, and several of the officers nod gravely. "We're hardly equipped to deal with more than a drunken hit-and-run, and now we're looking at a killer with seven murders on its conscience."

Aaron exchanges a quick glance with Rossi. None of them missed the pronoun.

"We've gathered all the information about the victims we could think of. Everyone in this room knows at least one of the victims, if not personally then by association. Small town," he says, and grimaces in what looks like embarrassment.

Aaron takes a step forward. "Chief Brown – Dex," he amends when the man mouths it at him, and several officers chuckle at the exchange, "you've done an admirable job with the resources available to you. You were right to call in assistance from us. Our technical analyst, Penelope Garcia, is working from Quantico to research the victims' backgrounds, and see if she can find connections. We," he gestures vaguely to the rest of the team, "will work on a profile, which will help you catch the unsub. Unknown subject," he clarifies when he notices a few of the Carmine Falls officers looking puzzled at the word. "The profile will help us narrow down the suspect list. If the killer is local – and we have good reason to believe so, since all the victims are local and have been found in or close to town – your local connections and acquaintances will help us immensely."

One officer, who rather eerily resembles a younger version of Morgan only with a frizzy mane of black curls, raises his hand, and Aaron nods. "Yes?"

"Can't we just wait until full moon and lure it out with a virgin sacrifice?" Despite the wording, his expression is sincere, and Aaron looks at the Chief, who has turned beet red in the face.

"Hamill! Do you remember what we discussed yesterday?"

"Yeah – don't mention the werewolf." Hamill does smile now, and he shrugs, obviously used to the Chief's moods. "But really, Dex – they're gonna hear 'bout it soon enough. Better coming from us, yeah?"

Aaron clears his throat, and attention turns to him. He notices that the younger officers are smiling, laughing or rolling their eyes indulgently, but the older ones look serious, anxious.

"I believe you mentioned that… theory to agent Jareau, Ch—Dex," he says evenly, looking at the Chief who nods, though he still looks chagrined.

"Let me be frank and say that we can't give much credit to the theory. It is not the first time some supernatural phenomenon has been blamed for what turns out to be a very human killer. We are already working with several theories – it is likely that the unsub is using the aid of a trained attack animal to bring down his victims."

He notices some of the older faces growing relieved, but some still look doubtful. Including the Chief'.

"We understand, agent Hotchner. And we have faith your profile will help us catch the killer. But… I ask you to consider the possibility that there's something—unusual going on."

"I promise you we will be open to any possibility – but we also must look at the facts," Aaron states firmly, and the Chief looks satisfied. Al Black looks openly relieved, and Aaron thinks it would be a good idea to have a talk with the Deputy.

"But," Hamill is waving his hand again, ignoring the slightly exasperated look the Chief gives him. "I honestly don't understand – how can a whole town believe some horror creature is running around, like it's some kind of B-movie?"

Aaron doesn't even have to look in Reid's direction before he hears the younger agent launch into lecture mode.

"It's not as uncommon as you might think, actually. It is often referred to as mass suggestion, or mass hysteria if we are talking about larger things like natural disasters or bomb threats, to name a few. One of our earliest psychological drives is that of fitting in – doing what others do, saying what others say. It only takes a rumor to start, and enough people to hear and repeat it, before it suddenly becomes universal truth. Most individuals are afraid of standing out, of being alone with their perceptions, so most individuals will revert to the consensus of the group. In fact, numerous psychological experiments show us that…"

Aaron is edging away, sensing that the briefing is over, with half the officers transfixed on Reid, and the other half edging towards their desks, probably eager to return to work. He catches the Chief's eyes and nods as the man gestures towards his office.

JJ is talking with detective Greene, and Morgan, Prentiss and Rossi head towards the team's office. Aaron enters the Chief's office together with Al Black, and the Chief closes the door.

"Quite knowledgeable, that doctor of yours," Al Black says with a grin, and Aaron smiles shortly. "You have no idea. He's just getting started."

"Look, agent Hotchner…" The Chief is looking uncomfortable, and Aaron cuts him off.

"Call me Hotch. We're not so formal outside the Bureau." He returns the smiles of both Carmine Falls officers, and awards himself a small mental pat on the shoulder for successfully reverting to pack mentality.

"Hotch," the Chief continues, "I know you must think we're just a crazy, small-town bunch of bumbling idiots. No, really," the Chief holds up a big hand to prevent the polite refusal Aaron was about to make. "I would think the same if I just arrived. And I know the kid out there can probably talk all night long of suggestion and small town mentality – but I ask you to go talk with Martha Coleman before you completely write off the killer not being human. She saw the… creature forty-four years ago, before it stopped killing. And she's no senile old lady."

"She's the grandmother of Jerry, the hotel clerk?" Aaron asks, and Al Black nods.

"Yup, that's her. I'll take you there, if you don't mind. She's a bit wary of strangers – been called crazy once too many, and doesn't trust people right away."

"And she also makes the best cakes 'round here, right, Al?" the Chief snorts, and Al Black laughs and holds up both his hands.

"Yes, yes, true! I have an ulterior motive – so arrest me, Chief."

"I will if you don't behave. Well, Hotch, come see me when you return – I'll look forward to hearing what you think."

Hotch nods, and he exits the office with Al Black.

"I'd like to bring Prentiss," he says, thinking to himself that Emily will be just right to win over a distrustful, old lady.

They walk past Reid, and his captive audience of seven open-mouthed officers.

"… it's what happened during the second world war! It's common genocide psychology. How do you think the SS officers, most of them just ordinary family men, coped with suddenly being forced into a job that consisted largely of killing other human, either directly or by association? They truly believed it was the right way, because it had been _suggested_ to them. Our brain is designed to find patterns and logic behind everything we do – it keeps us safe and sane. If we suddenly find ourselves in a situation where we question our morals or ethics, we try to shift the situation to fit our moral code, because it's easier than shifting our whole belief system. It's called _cognitive dissonance_, as termed by Festinger in 1957, and in short, it deals with discrepancies in the human brain. If you see something you can't explain, your brain works in overdrive to find something it recognizes. In that sense, it might be easier to accept seeing a werewolf killing, rather than admit it's actually your neighbor or brother. In fact, most early sightings of werewolves are believed to be the work of serial killers, back when the idea of serial killers was so unknown and unbelievable that it was easier to revert to local myths and folklore…"

As Aaron walks past Hamill, the young officer's partner, a burly redhead, slowly shakes his head, eyes glued on Reid, and says, "it's amazing." He looks at Hamill with an awed expression. "It's like Google on warp drive!"

Aaron actually likes Al Black even more when the man tries to conceal his burst of laughter as a coughing fit.

* * *

Al Black drives the patrol car towards the outskirts of the small town. He and Prentiss exchange a few comments about weird colleagues – Al Black throws in the _'hopeless charmer; just a question of time before he hits on the wrong person'_-card labeled Greene, and Prentiss trumps it with the _'hyper-intelligent genius you just can't win an argument with'_-card labeled Reid, and Al Black laughs in surrender and says "yeah, that kid beats anyone!" before his expression turns somber.

"So-eh, Hotch, Prentiss – what do you really think of this whole werewolf business?"

Aaron catches Emily's eyes in the rearview mirror, and she gives a tiny shrug. He looks at Al Black, who's looking at the road.

"I think," he says after a moment's consideration, "that we don't believe in werewolves."

Al Black's white smile flashes at him.

"Hm yeah, didn't think you would. Can't say that I do, either. But Dex is convinced there's something about it. Maybe not a werewolf like you know it from the movies. But then at least an animal that's smart in a way a zoologist won't be able to explain."

Aaron nods slowly.

"That's not impossible. Nature is unpredictable. There's nothing from the victims that suggests anything supernatural, though. Animal DNA and human DNA – it could easily be explained by the unsub using an animal in the attack. If there hadn't been human DNA in the mutilations, you probably would have concluded it as the work of a crazy dog or fox."

Al Black shrugs, and turns into a long gravel driveway.

"Maybe so. I wouldn't mention that to Mrs. Coleman, though. Not if you want to get anything out of her. We're here," he announces, and Aaron has to remind himself how little time it takes to reach 'the outside of town' in tiny towns like this.

They exit the car and step onto the driveway before the old, but well-kept farm. The building is redstone and wood, and green and yellow fields lie beyond the U-shaped building. A few hens are scurrying about in the front yard, and a distant 'moo' can be heard from the big, white-and-black cows trudging slowly in the fenced-in part of the fields.

Pure, American, small-town idyll.

The idyllic scene is scattered, though, when a large, drooling dog of indeterminable breed comes barging through the front yard, barking threateningly. Aaron has an impulse to reach for his gun, but before he can act on it, a wheezy, old voice yells, "Buster! Shut up! Sit!"

Buster comes to an abrupt stop and lets out a whine, hanging his head in shame as a white-haired woman emerges from around the building. She is clearly past her prime, but she looks like a solid farmer's-wife, with narrow, suspicious eyes,

"Al Black – that you?" She looks only slightly less suspicious, and Aaron watches Al Black display his row of white teeth in a wide smile.

"Yes, ma'am. This is agent Hotchner and agent Prentiss from the FBI. They'd like to ask you some questions."

Martha Coleman – at least, Aaron assumes it must be her – looks into his eyes for a moment, her own slabs of steely gray. Then she looks at Prentiss, and her expression softens a fraction. Aaron glances out from the corner of his eye, and sees Emily display her most winsome smile.

"You want to ask me questions? About the werewolf?"

Martha Coleman obviously doesn't miss the look Aaron shares with Emily, and she stands up straight, her face and posture stiff.

"Or do you think I'm crazy? Like the rest of them?"

Prentiss steps forward, holding out her hands in a diplomatic gesture.

"We'd like to know everything you can tell us, Mrs. Coleman. It might be of valuable help to the investigation."

Aaron wants to pat Emily on the back when Martha Coleman stands up even straighter, and flushes with pride.

"Hrm. Well, if it can help… just so happens I pulled a pie out of the oven. Come on."

They approach her, and Buster the dog jumps up and wags his tail excitedly now that he senses there's no danger. Al Black rubs the dog's frizzy ears as he passes, and Aaron discreetly sidesteps it – he's not much of a dog person.

Buster the dog, though, is apparently a people dog – as Aaron walks past, the dog suddenly jumps from Al Black's ministrations and towards Aaron, and faster than anyone can say '_assault on a federal officer'_, the dog is dry-humping Aaron's leg like there's no tomorrow.

"Buster!" Martha Coleman screams over Al Black's peal of laughter. Aaron tries to hide his annoyance as he does his best to dislodge the dog, and he looks sternly at Prentiss – who, to her credit, is looking like she's biting the inside of her cheek.

He manages to get a knee to the chest of the enthusiastic dog, but then it simply jumps higher and places big paws on his shoulder. Aaron winces as he feels something in the juncture between his neck and shoulder give as he twists away, and he glares at the dog – now secured by Martha Coleman – for good measure. It drools back at him, the big tongue lolling out between the row of pointy teeth in a happy, doggy grin.

"Sorry 'bout that, agent," Martha Coleman says, though her eyes are dancing. Aaron thinks this is probably the most entertainment she's had in days, if not years.

They sit around the old, rickety kitchen table with mismatched chairs. In the center rests an apple pie that almost seems to bring tears to Al Black's eyes. Even Prentiss has to forego her usual excuse of being allergic to calories when she's offered a slice with a big scoop of thick, yellow sour cream.

"Mrs. Coleman, we spoke with your grandson, Jerry, at the hotel," Aaron begins after chewing a mouthful of pie. He's glad he skipped the pastry at the morning buffet. "He says you saw something forty-three years ago, when another series of killings took place?"

Martha Coleman nods, seemingly mollified at the sight of Al Black nearly inhaling his first piece of pie and nodding eagerly when she cuts another and looks at him questioningly.

"Ah yes, Jerry. He's a good boy. I thank the lord they built that hotel, so he got a steady job and didn't fall into the antics of those scumbag friends of his. Scott Jersey and Mickey Dunham," she says in an aside to Al Black, who nods and grimaces slightly.

"My daughters and their children all think I'm crazy. Until now, that is. Because they can see the killings happen with their own eyes! Of course, they think it's some rabid dog or some idiot who can't control his Rottweiler." She snorts derisively, and Aaron looks at Prentiss. She takes the hint and leans forward, smiling.

"Mrs. Coleman, we understand you witnessed one of the killings forty-three years ago? A worker on your farm?"

"Ah yes, Harry Hills. May he rest in peace. He was such a blessing to me after Walther died. I couldn't run the farm all by myself, what with three small girls to take care of as well. Most people expected me to sell it." She looks offended at the mere thought, and Prentiss nods encouragingly.

"It can't have been easy being a strong-willed and independent woman over forty years ago," she says sympathetically, and Aaron watches Martha Coleman lighting up in the first smile since they arrived.

"You're right about that, my girl! Oh, you girls have it easy today. Get any job you want, and you don't even need a man!"

Aaron shares an amused look with Al Black. The detective has a smudge of sour cream on his chin. Martha Coleman continues talking, her eyes shining – Aaron can see a glimpse of the younger woman she once was.

"Walther died when he was forty. Doctor said it was a heart attack. Never understood it – he was strong as an ox and was never sick in his life. But doctor said it was probably something hereditary. His father died young too. After he died, people said I was crazy for hiring Harry and continue work. But we've always been self-sufficient, and never needed anything. Harry moved in here and took care of the animals. And **just** the animals, mind you," she says with a stern look at Al Black, and Aaron almost chokes on his coffee.

"I first saw the werewolf on the fourth of July, 1966. Of course, I didn't know what it was then. I remember the fireworks and the food and the whole town being festive – I took the girls to the parade, and Harry enjoyed a few beers with his friends. When the girls got tired, he insisted on following us home – he was a good old-fashioned gentleman, that Harry!

It was around ten when we returned home. Harry went to the barn, to check on the animals. I put the girls to bed. When I left their room, Harry was waiting for me in the kitchen. He looked worried – and I asked him what was wrong. He said the animals were acting weird, unsettled. And one of the stallions – I had horses back then – was lying dead in its booth. There was no blood – 'course it happened sometimes that wild animals attacked the livestock. When we called the vet the next day, he concluded it died of a heart attack. It was only four years old. Much too young to die. Much too young," she repeats, and then seems to shake herself. She takes a sip of coffee before continuing.

"We were walking across the yard when we saw it. The werewolf." Despite himself, Aaron feels a chill running down his spine, and he can feel the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rise. Martha Coleman is a good storyteller – and he doesn't believe she's crazy. Her eyes and voice are firm.

"Harry saw it too?" Prentiss is asking, jotting down notes on her notepad. Martha Coleman nods briskly.

"Yes, but he thought it was just a large dog. Maybe a wild wolf, but he said they're not normal around here. And they rarely travel alone. Always in packs.

Anyway, we were walking across the yard. I heard a noise, and looked towards the trees next to the fence. And then I saw it. It was only dusk, so I got a good view. It was huge – I've never seen such a wolf before. And the coat was a steely gray."

_Like her eyes_, Aaron thinks. Eyes that are growing distant, for the first time anxious.

"Did it look like a normal wolf? It wasn't standing on hind legs, like a human?" Prentiss asks, and Martha Coleman snorts and shakes her head.

"Goodness, no. That's like something out of one of those horrible movies the young kids watch."

"Then what made you think it was a werewolf?" Prentiss' voice is gentle, as if she doesn't want to cast any doubts about the woman's story. Martha Coleman looks at her firmly.

"It was the eyes. They were… intelligent. Observant. Calculating. Human." She whispers the last word. They are all silent for a moment. Then Al Black clears his throat, and the room seems to breathe again.

"Martha, tell us about Harry's death."

"Yes. It was the night after. I'd called the police in the morning, and they showed up, sure enough. But I don't think he believed me, that young, arrogant snot nose of an officer." She puts down her coffee cup with slightly more force than necessary. "He said I was probably still grieving about my husband. Would you believe that? Two years had passed – of course I missed Walther, still do every day, but he thought I was just a hysterical, blubbering woman! He said they'd keep a look out for a big, gray wolf, and then he left. And the next morning, I found Harry in his bed. Dead. I wondered why he wasn't up. His stomach was torn open. They told me he was missing 'bout six feet of his guts, that the _animal_ ate them." She calmly takes a sip of coffee, and for the first time Aaron wonders if he was wrong about her level of sanity – she seems unfazed by the gory details. But then again, she has probably seen a little of everything in her life.

"I asked them how an animal could sneak through a locked front door, or open a locked window and lock it again after leaving. And I asked them how come a wild animal would sneak past my bedroom and the girls' bedroom – four living, edible bodies – to get to Harry's room. They couldn't answer me. And two days later, Chief Pemble's son was killed, and then poor Harry wasn't interesting anymore."

Martha Coleman looks at them all in turn, and Aaron is sincere as he speaks.

"Mrs. Coleman, I'm sorry for your loss. And I'm sorry the investigation wasn't more in-depth." He looks quickly at Al Black to make sure he hasn't offended the Carmine Falls police force, but the Deputy is nodding and frowning.

"I'm just really curious, Mrs. Coleman. Who do _you_ think the killer was after Harry? If it really was a… werewolf – why did it kill only him and not you?"

Martha Coleman looks at him for a long minute without saying anything. Then she sighs, and rubs her hands on the table.

"I have asked myself that question many times over the years, agent Hotchner. Of course I thank the Lord for sparing the life of my girls and myself – but I don't know why it wanted Harry. Only…" She hesitates, and Aaron feels himself lean forward, his face open and shoulders pulled back in a display of unthreatening body-language. He sees his posture mirrored by Emily and Al Black.

"What, Mrs. Coleman? Anything you can tell us will be helpful."

She laughs shortly, a dry, brittle sound.

"I never told the officer this. I already knew he considered me a crazy, high-strung farmer's wife. But… something was missing from Harry's room. I know for sure, because he didn't have a lot of personal items. And this was given to him the day before – at the parade, actually. One of his friends, George Sloane, thought Harry should have it, to remind him of his late father. He was a pastor."

She pauses, and Aaron is about to ask when she continues:

"It was a beautiful, silver crucifix. And I remember thinking: What use could a werewolf possibly have for that?"

They don't speak for the first few minutes of the ride back to the station, each deep in thought. Prentiss holds a big Tupperware container on her lap, which is packed with the rest of the pie. Martha Coleman admonished her to '_not starve yourself, my girl! Men like a little meat on the bones – right, gentlemen?_'. Aaron had smiled and nodded along with Al Black. But now he thinks of Reid, of those slender and defined muscles and hard, sharp angles – not like the soft and feminine curves he's been used to. He thinks of Haley, for a mere moment, but forces himself to dismiss it, tells himself there's no use in comparing those two very different persons; very, immensely different situations.

He thinks of Reid screaming in his sleep, the terror in those haunted eyes, and thinks of Reid clutching him, nails clawing at him, Reid moaning and writing in pleasure, and the soft, sated look in his eyes after Aaron brought him to completion.

Then he forces his thoughts back to the werewolf and Mrs. Coleman, as he senses Al Black trying to catch his attention.

"So, Hotch, I know Dex is looking forward to hearing whether you changed your mind." The Deputy smiles, but his eyes are serious. Aaron once again looks in the rearview mirror, but Emily is looking out at the landscape flying by, her expression thoughtful.

"I agree there's something peculiar about it. If Mrs. Coleman is telling the truth. Not that I suspect her of lying," he adds quickly when Al Black looks at him sharply. "Hey, Black, you know most people are unreliable witnesses at best."

Al Black quirks a smile.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Mass suggestion."

* * *

They return to the station. The Chief whistles as he spots Prentiss carrying the Tupperware.

"Don't tell me that's one of Martha's pies?" His voice carries clearly through the station, and Miss White jumps up from the desk with a beaming smile and runs towards the kitchen – allegedly to make some of her famous coffee.

"Yeah, we secured a vital piece of evidence," Al Black calls back, and he laughs along with the Chief. Rossi pops his head out of the team's interim office, and only manages to look slightly disappointed when it's clear that the evidence is not a werewolf Halloween mask or gnawed-off leg, but merely a mouth-watering pie.

There's a natural lull in the work when Miss White bustles around with coffee and plates, and a natural lull in the conversation when everyone happily munches on a piece of pie.

Aside from the team and the Chief and Deputy, only Hamill and his burly partner – who Aaron soon learns is called 'Red', both in deference to his fire-engine hair and his long and unpronounceable Irish name, whose first syllable is 'Rhred' – are at the station. The other officers are either gone for the day, interviewing witnesses, or, in one case, '_gone to pull that damn, fat cat of Mrs. Norris' down from that freakishly large pear tree again_'.

Aaron smiles inwardly. Small towns.

Morgan inhales his pie, and looks calculatingly at Reid's untouched plate. Reid mutters something about getting enough sugar with the coffee, and Morgan snatches the plate before he's done talking. Then he moans around a mouthful and asks if Mrs. Coleman is single. Prentiss smirks and says, "yeah, but **way** out of your league, chocolate god", which sends the Carmine Falls officers into gales of laughter. Miss White joins in at the front desk, her laugh surprisingly girlishly and light. Rossi pats Prentiss on the knee and grins toothily at Morgan's good-natured scowl.

Aaron catches Reid's eyes, and they share a tiny, quick smile entirely unrelated to the bouts of laughter surrounding them.

The rest of the day is uneventful.

Morgan and Rossi have worked on the preliminary profile. They are still operating within the thesis of the unsub being in some kind of symbiotic partnership with a large dog of some kind. Garcia has called and told them that the results from the animal DNA should be in tomorrow. She's been '_pushing harder than a woman in her third day of labor_' – and Aaron sends a sympathetic thought to the forensic lab assistant who's been taking her calls – but they're '_overworked and underpaid and don't give a flying hoot about Kentucky-Cujo_'.

Aaron desperately hopes the nick name is Garcia's own, and not something floating around at Quantico. Strauss will kill him. If Cujo doesn't beat her to it.

Reid has looked into the victim backgrounds and their geographical locations. Aaron has mostly seen the back of him, standing in front of the map or the whiteboard to which they've pinned the seven victims' photos and fact sheets.

Prentiss and Aaron have gone over the interview with Martha Coleman with the Chief – he seemed puzzled by the story of the crucifix. And disappointed when Aaron told him he still doesn't believe in werewolves.

* * *

They return to the hotel at 9.30, and since the Chief insisted on ordering a truck-load of Chinese take-out a few hours earlier, they're free to peruse a few hours of free time.

Which, of course, in the BAU equals work.

Aaron holds the door to their room open for Reid, who's carrying a box of case files from the killings forty-three years ago. Prentiss and JJ have decided to go over Prentiss' notes from the interview with Martha Coleman, in the hopes of finding something they've missed. Morgan and Rossi will continue their work on the profile, and confer with Garcia about traces of any legal or illegal dog breedings in the area. Aaron suggests they can start by asking Martha Coleman where she got Buster the dog.

Reid dumps the box on the coffee table, and looks more enthusiastic than anyone should at the prospect of trawling through musty, old files. Aaron sets down the large cup of coffee he's been holding – thermo cup, provided by Miss White who has made it her personal mission to replace the blood in Reid's veins with coffee, after he agreed with the Chief that she does indeed make great coffee, and even provided a bonus ten-minute lecture on the origins of the history of the coffee bean.

Miss White is in love with a new surrogate son, and Reid is slightly hyper.

Aaron sits on his bed, as Reid is occupying the only chair at the table. He flips through the files, sprouting off facts and theories faster than Aaron can digest them.

When Reid reaches the report on Harry Hills, Martha Coleman's worker, Aaron throws in the occasional comment provided by the old lady earlier in the day. He can tell Reid is annoyed from the way the boy purses his lips and frowns at the report.

"Why doesn't it say here that she'd seen something sneaking around the night before?" he asks, tapping his fingers on the paper.

"Maybe the officer taking the report thought she was exaggerating, or hysterical," Aaron suggests. Reid looks incredulous.

"He's still supposed to write it down! What if it was true? Then they missed a vital lead."

Aaron shrugs, and grimaces as the movement makes a burst of pain race from his shoulder to his neck. "Small town over forty years ago. Police work just wasn't the same back then. Especially not with a single, working woman being their best lead. It wasn't that common back then."

Reid puts down the file, and pouts a little.

"I'd like to read Prentiss' notes from the interview."

Aaron looks at his watch.

"Tomorrow, then. I doubt Emily or JJ will be happy to have you pounding at the door now."

Reid sighs, looking defeated, and Aaron smiles ever so slightly. "Reid, your work ethics make you a model employee. I'll have to make sure someone doesn't steal you from the unit."

Reid snorts, but smiles as well. "It's not like no-one's ever tried. I get around five job offers a month."

This is news to Aaron. "Five?"

"Hmm. And those are just the ones I'd consider taking. Then there are the unserious ones." Reid rolls his eyes, and Aaron decides he probably doesn't want to know what Reid considers unserious.

"All the major universities probably want to secure your brain, huh?" he asks, and Reid snorts again.

"Yeah, they hardly want me for my body."

Aaron can't help but grin, both at the joke and the horrified, embarrassed expression on Reid's face.

"Reid, that's the second joke unrelated to science you've made in so many days. I worry about you."

Reid is blushing and pushing his hair away from his face, and Aaron has to firmly steer away his sudden desire to run his hands over the soft, chestnut locks. He clears his throat and distracts himself by idly rubbing at his shoulder with his left hand.

"Oh, be quiet," Reid mumbles, rolling his eyes in reply to the sarcasm. He looks at Aaron, and frowns slightly.

"Does your shoulder hurt?"

Aaron raises an eyebrow.

"You mean, you didn't hear Prentiss tell the story of Martha Coleman's dog trying to copulate with my leg?"

Reid looks amused, his eyes glittering with silent laughter.

"No, I must've been busy. How did that hurt your shoulder? Did it knock you over?"

"No," Aaron replies with a small smile, "I just made a wrong twist when I tried to push it off."

He is surprised when Reid stands up before he's done talking, and even more so when the younger agent slides behind him on the bed, his hands coming to rest on Aaron's shoulders.

"It should be easy to loosen with a few simple acupressure techniques. I've…"

"… read about it," Aaron chimes in, and smiles as Reid gently slaps the back of his head in retribution.

This is the first time Reid has initiated physical contact between them, and Aaron finds himself enjoying more than just the acupressure – which, to Reid's credit, actually takes care of the tension almost immediately, leaving Aaron's shoulder and arm slightly numb.

The slender fingers glide over his neck, and Aaron groans in relief as Reid's thumbs press into the base of his skull.

"Too hard?" Reid is asking, his voice slightly worried, and Aaron quickly shakes his head in denial. The fingers continue their ministrations for a few more minutes, and then he can feel Reid hesitating. Suddenly, Reid's arms slide around his shoulders and lock gently around his chest, and Reid leans into his back, his head resting on Aaron's shoulder.

Aaron doesn't breathe for a moment, and then he wraps his own arms around Reid's.

They sit like that for several minutes. Aaron can feel Reid's calm, warm breath against his neck and shoulder, and he knows Reid must feel his heart beat slowly and evenly.

Reid shifts minutely, and Aaron can hear his breath picking up a little speed.

"Do you want to sleep now?" The words are soft, and Aaron considers his answer, considers the real question behind the words.

"Yes, I think that sounds nice," he says after a few beats, and he can tell from the tiny pressure as Reid relaxes his arms that it was the right answer. He squeezes Reid's arm and then slowly lets go. They both move and end up sitting at the edge of the bed. Reid is not looking at him, and Aaron places a hand over Reid's folded ones.

"Thanks, it really helped. I feel as good as new."

Reid looks up and smiles, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "You're welcome. I'm glad to… do something for you."

Aaron looks at him for a long moment.

"Reid, you _have_ done something for me. With me. But please don't get any weird ideas about keeping tabs of any kind. We'll take it slow. Okay?"

Relief radiates from Reid, and he smiles genuinely, squeezing Aaron's hand.

"Okay. Thank you. I'm sorry, I'm not good at…" He shrugs helplessly, and Aaron feels a rush of tenderness. He tugs at Reid's right hand, brings it to his face to rest against his cheek, kisses the palm. Reid's eyes are big, anxious as they look at him.

"I know, Spencer. But I only expect you to tell me what you want, what you're comfortable with. I don't expect _any_ given thing, at _any_ given time." He stresses the two words with a small squeeze at Reid's left hand. Reid nods, and the fingers pressed against Aaron's cheek strokes it softly.

"Okay. I can do that," he replies, and Aaron kisses his hand again before gently letting go.

Tonight Aaron does his night routine first, and is lying in bed when Reid emerges from the bathroom in his sweats and _FBI_ t-shirt. Aaron smiles – model employee even when he sleeps. Reid smiles back, tentatively, and he pauses in the middle of the floor, between their beds.

"Would it be okay… I mean, would you like to… can I sleep in your bed?" he finally blurts out, biting his lip as if he wants to take back the question. Aaron merely nods and throws back the cover, and watches as Reid only hesitates a second before he picks up the pillow on his own bed and places it next to Aaron's. Then he slides under the covers, and Aaron turns out the light.

For a moment they lie silent, still, softly illuminated by the dim glow of the hallway light.

Then Aaron rolls onto his side and presses himself lightly into Reid's side, sliding his left arm under Reid's head and the other across his stomach. Reid stiffens ever so slightly, and for a moment Aaron is afraid it's too much – but then the boy sighs and relaxes, his face and body tilting slightly towards Aaron.

Tonight, Aaron watches Reid fall into a deep and peaceful sleep, and he holds the slender body as if he's afraid to break it, presses his face into soft, chestnut hair, inhales the scent of Reid, and tries to put words to something he can't quite define.

_A/N: Thank you for all the lovely reviews! They really fuel my creative (warp) drive. _

_I'm not the world's greatest criminal plot-writer – if I were, __**I'd**__ be the one making big bucks off 'The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo'. The touchy-feely-emotional stuff flows much more easily. But I hope you can apply suspension of disbelief if you discover any plot holes or irregularities. _

_The chapters are posted a bit irregularly, and differ quite much in length – I try to cut them where it's logical. It takes a little more time to work on the plot sections. But, rest assured, this WIP won't be abandoned! It's all in my head, just needs to be written. Pity we don't write as fast and complex as we think. _

_Thanks for reading along!_


	5. Breakthrough

Eye of the Hurricane

**Summary**: As the BAU team deals with a killer who doesn't seem quite human, Reid must deal with the aftermath of being raped, and sort out his relationship with Hotch. Sequel to one-shot "Shelter from Storm".

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Criminal Minds, nor do I make money from writing about it.

Un-beta'ed – any mistakes are my own.

**Warnings**: References to non-con Reid/OC. Rated M for the slashy stuff. Supernatural plot-elements.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Breakthrough**

Aaron is jolted awake by a sudden sound. It only takes him a moment to realize it's not his alarm, and that it's too early to be awake. It takes him a moment longer to ascertain that Reid is not having another nightmare – the other agent is stirring next to him.

Aaron realizes someone's knocking insistently at the door, and he pushes gently at Reid. "You should probably lie in the other bed," he whispers, and he sees Reid nodding, his face not really showing any emotion apart from tired resignation. Aaron watches him pick up his pillow and place it on the other bed, before crawling under the covers, trying to look as if he's been there the whole time. Then Aaron goes into the small hallway and peeks through the peephole. Morgan is outside, looking impatient. Aaron opens the door, and Morgan nods to him.

"Hotch, there's another body."

Aaron nods in reluctant acceptance – he'd already figured as much. Then he looks at his watch. 4.30.

"Alright. Meet you in the lobby in five minutes. You woke JJ and Prentiss?"

"Yeah. See you." Morgan disappears, and Aaron returns to the room. Reid is already getting dressed, hastily pulling on a random sweater vest over his shirt. Aaron smiles at how horribly the colors clash, and Reid frown, looking at himself.

"Oh." He smiles sheepishly at Aaron and picks another vest, his eyes flickering longingly towards Miss White's thermo cup.

"We can stop for coffee on the way," Aaron assures him, quickly pulling on his own clothes. Reid smiles quickly and then turns to the coffee table, packing up the old case files in the box.

Aaron frowns as he absentmindedly knots his tie. He thinks there's something off about Reid's behavior, but he can't quite pinpoint what. Maybe Reid's just tired – even though he's slept undisturbed, it's another night of too little sleep. He watches Reid secure the lid of the box with quick, sure movements, and wonders if he's seeing ghosts. Then Reid turns around again, thermo cup in his hand, and looks relatively bright and awake.

"Ready when you are, Hotch."

Aaron nods, but he hesitates before turning to the door.

"Are you feeling alright?" he asks, looking closely at Reid. He ignores the now-familiar warmth that spreads in his stomach whenever he's looking at the younger agent in something else than a professional manner. And as he remembers Reid touching him last night - his hands firm yet endearingly shy, his arms hesitant but sincere in their embrace - and Reid's obvious relief when Aaron told him to take it slowly and not worry about retribution, his timid request to sleep next to Aaron, he finds it even more unsettling when he watches Reid stiffen imperceptibly, eyes not quite looking at Aaron as he replies.

"Yeah, sure. Just tired, you know. Even though I didn't dream, for once." He offers a half-smile, and after a moment Aaron nods. Not that he believes Reid – but this is not the time or place for a discussion. He makes a mental note to pull Reid aside for a chat the first chance he gets.

"Let's go," he says, and as Reid walks past him, he automatically reaches out a hand to touch the other man's arm. Reid stares at the door as he deftly sidesteps the hand, and Aaron feels as if he's been punched in the stomach. He forces his face into a neutral expression, and follows Reid out the door. And deep down, he has a gnawing feeling that he has somehow taken a wrong step somewhere, that despite Reid's reassurances, Aaron has only damaged him more.

They pull up in front of The Diner – two patrol cars are already there, their blue lights casting an eerie glow over the crime scene. Aaron spots another SUV, and next to it a crime scene technician in a recognizable white space suit. Another technician is squatting next to something covered by a blood-stained white sheet. The Chief and Al Black are standing next to the body as well, their faces somber as they discuss something in hushed voices.

The team exits the cars, and the Chief hastily settles into a slightly more relaxed expression. "Ah, you're here. Sorry to wake you in the middle of the night."

Morgan waves a dismissive hand.

"No-one controls when the killer decides to hit. Who's the victim?"

Al Black doesn't have to confer with his notebook as he nods towards the sheeted body. Aaron can see a bloody hand and something looking suspiciously like a gnawed-off piece of colon sticking out from beneath the sheet. His faint longing for breakfast fades to the background.

"Timothy Pears. 21 years old. He worked at The Diner. Owners found him." Al Black nods towards the couple standing near the entrance. They are talking to Hamill's partner, Red. The husband looks grim, his face set in a tight expression. He has an arm around the woman, who is openly weeping. Aaron recognizes her as their waitress from the day before yesterday.

"They're Arlene and Joe Thompson. They're not usually here so early, but Arlene thought she forgot to turn off the lights in the kitchen. And they found Timmy here. But he's been dead for some hours – right, Jones?"

The technician straightens up. He's round-faced and jovial, with heavy black eyebrows and tufts of white hair.

"Yup. I'd hazard a guess that says he was killed between midnight and 1 am. Don't hold me to it until tomorrow, though – or, well, later in the day - when we've had a chance to do the autopsy."

He gives Aaron and the team a curious look, which Al Black isn't late to catch.

"Oh, these are the guys from FBI," the Deputy says. "From the Behavioral Analysis Unit."

Jones looks impressed, and smiles crookedly. "The BAU? I've read about you. Please to meet you. Sorry I can't shake," and he holds up a gloved, bloodied hand with a small smile. "My colleague, Parker, is over there by the car. Don't speak with her; she's grumpy whenever we're pulled out of bed in the middle of the night. Almost feared for my life on the drive here – she must've been going at least…" He trails off and looks at Al Black, who's raised an eyebrow. "Oh, nevermind, Deputy! We're located in Hillsdale, thirty miles from here," he explains to the team. "The forensics department covers quite a large geographical area, since nothing hardly ever happens in these small towns. We've been quite overworked here in the Falls, though," he says with a sympathetic smile to Al Black, who nods with a tight smile.

"We hope you'll go back to analyzing road kill and stomach contents from bar brawls soon enough, Jones, now that we have help from the experts."

Jones nods, and fixes his heavy gaze on Aaron.

"I suppose you want to take a look at the latest victim?"

Before they can reply, he bends down and removes the sheet from the body with what can almost be labeled a flourish. Aaron has always suspect crime scene technicians must possess a morbid sense of humor to survive their job. Just like profilers, in fact.

He hears JJ give a soft gasp as the earthly remains of Timothy Pears are revealed. The kid is lying spread-eagled on the ground, as if he was knocked flat on his back before being killed. His stomach is torn open, and Aaron was right about the colon. It's hanging out, and is severed into two pieces. The cut is torn and ragged, which indicates teeth rather than a knife.

It is not so much the physical injuries, however, as the face that catches their attention. Timothy Pears' eyes are huge, frozen in an expression of shock, and his mouth is open in a silent scream. Aaron thinks he can still see a look of utter horror in the pale, blue eyes, even in death. He can feel the prickling sensation of the hairs of his arms and neck rising.

"Don't know what hit him," Jones says with a pensive frown, "but I can tell you I've never seen a dead body looking so terrified."

"JJ," Aaron hears himself saying, "let's go talk to the owners. Morgan." He shares a look with the darker man, and Morgan nods, indicating he'll take over here. Aaron takes a step back and puts a gentle hand on JJ's back. She tears her eyes from Timothy Pears', and follows him silently.

Aaron nods to Officer Red, who looks relieved to step away from the sobbing Arlene Thompson.

"Mrs. and Mr. Thompson, I'm Jennifer Jareau with the FBI. This is agent Hotchner. We'd like to speak with you, if you're feeling ready."

Aaron is glad to see JJ revert back to her usual compassionate and professional approach that works so well with people in minor stages of shock.

Arlene Thompson nods. She keeps wiping her eyes with a handkerchief even though her tears are still falling, and she is smudging mascara everywhere. Her husband pats her shoulder slightly awkwardly, his expression a little lost.

"Yes, of course," Arlene sniffs, and she looks quickly at Timothy Pears' body and then away, her face crumbling slightly more. "Can we go into the Diner? It's… chilly out here," she says with a weak smile, and JJ nods reassuringly.

"Of course."

They go inside, and Arlene launches into making coffee for everyone despite JJ's protests that it isn't necessary.

"Nonsense! Never met a cop who couldn't drink coffee – especially this time of the morning," Arlene insists, and Joe Thompson merely smiles and shrugs, as if he's given up fighting with his wife long ago. Aaron does appreciate the coffee, though, when he and JJ are seated across from the Diner owners. Police officers are going in and out, fetching coffee as well, and Aaron even spies the surly face of Jones' colleague, Parker, a very pale redhead with a smatter of freckles. She looks less surly after Arlene orders her husband to put out the leftover pies from the day before.

"Tell us about Timothy," JJ says, looking from Arlene to Joe Thompson. The couple shares a look, and Joe Thompson speaks.

"He was a good kid. Worked here for what, two years?" Arlene nods, and he continues. "Mother's sick. Some kind of… heart condition."

Aaron sees Arlene's grimace, and he focuses his attention on her.

"What, Arlene?"

She looks guilty, and then resigned as her husband gives her an exasperated look.

"What, Joe! I can't lie for the feds!" she protests, and JJ smiles gently, holding out her hand to Arlene.

"Please tell us what you know, Arlene. It might help us find Timothy's killer."

Joe Thompson sighs and leans back, and Arlene busies her hands at the table cloth, plucking off invisible threads.

"Well… Timothy stole from the register. Once," she blurts out. "Some months ago. I—we didn't report him. We had a talk with him. He was a good kid," she says insistently, looking at her husband with a set expression, as if they've had this discussion before. "His mother's a druggie. She spends all her money on that crap. And most of Timmy's money as well. He only stole from us because his mother couldn't feed his baby sister. He was so upset – poor kid." She sniffs and dabs her eyes again. "So we didn't tell the police. And… I gave him a raise. And now he's dead." She starts crying again, and her husband takes her hand.

"You're a good person, Arlene," JJ says soothingly, and the woman smiles through her tears.

"Is it possible," Aaron asks, "that Mrs. Pears owed money to the wrong people, and they decided to take it out on Timothy? Did he have any enemies?"

Both the Thompsons look aghast at the suggestion.

"Goodness, no!" Joe Thompson exclaims. "This is Carmine Falls, not Chicago or New York. People don't get killed over a few bucks. They just don't! If someone buys dope and doesn't pay up, they get a good thrashing at the most. And the next day, everyone's buddies again and sharing a joint behind Wal-Mart in Hillsdale." Arlene is nodding in agreement with her husband's assessment.

"And he didn't have any enemies?" Aaron repeats, looking between the couple. They both shake their heads.

"No, he was a good boy. Everyone liked Timmy. He had a good, steady job and a nice girlfriend – oh, poor Becky!" As Arlene breaks down in tears again, Aaron shares a look with JJ.

"Mrs. and Mr. Thompson, please call us if you remember anything else." JJ slides her card across the table, and Arlene nods and puts it in her pocket. Joe Thompson looks at them, his eyes worried.

"Please catch whoever did this. Timmy didn't deserve this. No-one did."

"We'll do our very best," Aaron assures him as he and JJ stands to leave. He only hopes their best will be good enough.

* * *

It's still early in the morning when they arrive at the station, but even so, Miss White is behind the front desk, her presence a solid comfort in the room. Aaron thinks the officers must consider her a permanent fixture and that they would probably be quite lost without her.

"There's already coffee on the pot, Dex," she calls out. "And I brought donuts. Thought you'd all need it. You never take the time to eat properly." The last statement is accentuated with a motherly frown at Reid, who's making his way through the room to the team's office in the back. Aaron watches him trying to shift the box of old files and his thermo cup – full again with courtesy of Arlene – around so he can open the door. He struggles for a moment, and Aaron is just about to come to assistance, when Greene jumps in and twists the handle, indicating with a flourish that Reid can enter. Aaron watches Reid say something, and Greene laughs, perhaps a little too loudly. Aaron feels himself frowning, and he looks surreptitiously to his left to see Prentiss standing nearby. He hopes she's not too impressed by Greene's little display. Aaron would hate to have Rossi in a foul mood.

"Morgan, Rossi," he calls, and when they're gathered in the office, he dials Garcia's number.

"You've reached the fountain of supreme knowledge," chirps the familiar voice. "Speak your business!"

"Hey, Garcia," Aaron says, sharing a smile with Morgan. "You're on speaker with Rossi and Morgan. And Reid," he adds, though Reid is busy marking the map and updating the victim board with the latest addition.

"I already spoke with Prentiss," Garcia announces. "And you may all bow down before me, because I have single-handedly discovered a connection between the victims!"

Morgan smiles even more. "That's my girl!"

"Well," Garcia says, in the tone of voice that tells them she expects credit for what she is about to tell them, "I looked at the criminal records of all the victims. Six of them have been arrested for petty crimes – four shop-lifting incidents, two breaking an entering. That left one victim – Jason Mancini. Turns out he's the son of the mayor, and his criminal record was deleted! Nepotism as its best. Crime was possession of drugs, as in two joints, and happened when he was fifteen. And Prentiss told me earlier that Timothy Pears stole from the cash register, but was never reported.

However, apart from that, there is nothing whatsoever linking the victims." She sounds dejected, and they all smile. "Five men, three women. Ages ranging between 17 and 52. Different ethnicities. Different socioeconomic status. Different political orientation. The only things they all have in common are living in Carmine Falls, petty crimes and being in the wrong place at the wrong time!"

Morgan sighs. "Thanks, baby girl. We know you've found all there is to find."

"Aww," Garcia coos. "You're so sweet, Derek! Made my day! Oh, and I will call the lab as soon as they open – can you believe those people get to meet at 8 am like normal beehive workers? Ohh, hi Kev! Gotta go, guys – breakfast's here. And he brought croissants. Ta!"

Morgan grins as Aaron shakes his head and pockets his phone.

"So, what do we have? Random killings?" Rossi doesn't look happy, and Aaron feels the same way. An equal opportunity killer is rare, and very hard to profile.

"And where does the werewolf thing fit in?" Morgan muses. "Hey, Reid, in all your newfound knowledge of werewolves, did you come across anything about victim preferences? Young, nubile virgins?"

Reid doesn't turn from the map.

"No, that's a myth. A werewolf will basically kill anyone it comes across. Some speculate that it kills healthy people in their prime – for the same reasons you would rather eat veal tenderloin than an old, stringy steak."

He ends his speech abruptly, and Rossi and Morgan share a look of surprise at the lack of lecture. Aaron clears his throat.

"Why are we talking about the unsub as if he's actually a werewolf?"

Rossi shrugs and smiles.

"Because the unsub might be using the werewolf story to mask his killings – and if he knows that werewolves are without preference, he might be choosing his victims at random. Of course, he might also know something about them that we don't – or have a personal connection to all of them. Maybe works in a local store they all visited. Even if they are in different social standings, in a small town like this they'd cross paths."

"And," Morgan adds, "the unsub might actually believe that he is a werewolf. And if he's using an attack dog to initiate his killings, he'd probably go to isolated areas and wait for a random person to come by. And then set the dog at them. In that case, he won't even know who they are or why he's killing them – other than they were the one available. Or, he could be some kind of bringer of justice – punishing people for their crimes. In that case, anyone who's ever smoked a joint or stolen a Hershey bar from the store is a potential victim."

Aaron pinches the bridge of his nose. He can feel a headache coming on.

"Alright, let's work on the profile."

It is almost three in the afternoon. Prentiss and JJ have gone to talk with Mrs. Pears, the mother of the latest victim. Aaron is talking with Rossi and Al Black – Jones has just called to confirm that Timothy Pears was indeed killed between midnight and 1 am, and that he was killed instantly by the blow to the back of his head as he was knocked over. Jones mused that it looks like the kid was hit by a truck, judging by the abrasions. Aaron feels a small spark of consolation that at least the kid wasn't alive to feel his colon being pulled from his stomach and gnawed to pieces.

As Rossi and Al Black engage in a discussion of whether a large dog actually has the kind of strength the bodies insinuate, Aaron notices Greene enter the team's office. He knows Reid is in there, trying to find a pattern on the map, and he assumes Greene is looking for JJ. The press already managed to talk to a distraught Arlene, and Aaron knows they're going to be doing damage control soon.

Rossi and Al Black are arguing about which two dog breeds you would have to mix to get the largest animal possible when Aaron watches Morgan enter the team's office, two cups of coffee in his hands – one presumably for Reid.

A few seconds pass, and Aaron is just about to take interest in Rossi's admittedly interesting theories on how someone would succeed in mating a Doberman with a Poodle, and whether the result would have any merit as an attack dog – Rossi is arguing that the Poodle's viciousness mixed with the Doberman's strength would make for a cold blooded killer, and Al Black is guffawing - when he hears a commotion from the team's office.

Morgan is shouting something, and Reid joins in, and Aaron thinks he can hear Greene as well. He straightens, fixing his attention on the office, and he can sense Rossi doing the same. Just as Aaron is about to take a step, there's a loud crash, and Greene falls through the doorway, clutching at the nearest desk for balance. Morgan emerges a second later, his face contorted in fury. Greene holds up his hands defensively, leaning away from Morgan, and Aaron is already in motion when Morgan hauls back and hits the Carmine Falls officer in the face.

"Morgan!" Aaron is shocked, but his voice is tight, controlled. He reaches the pair just as Morgan grabs Greene by the shirt and hauls him from the desk. Greene has apparently overcome his initial surprise at the attack, and he tries to dislodge Morgan. They wrestle for a few seconds in an intense almost-dance, and then Morgan succeeds in shoving Greene to the floor. Greene aims a kick at Morgan's shin, and soon the two men are rolling around in a regular fist-fight.

Aaron catches a glimpse of Reid, who's standing in the doorway – he looks furious, hands fisted and body shaking.

It takes Aaron, Al Black and Hamill to pull Morgan off Greene, and the Chief comes running from his office, looking both confused and angry.

"What the hell is going on here?" His face is red, and Aaron sees him looking first at Greene, whose shirt is stained with coffee and the blood running from his nose, and then at Morgan, who's still restrained by Aaron and Hamill, and finally at Reid.

"Morgan," Aaron says, and his voice is low and dangerous. "Would you mind telling me exactly what brought this on?"

Morgan is still tense, his expression furious, and he grits his teeth as he stares at Greene with eyes that look hard enough to drill holes.

"That _bastard piece of shit_," he spits the words out, nodding at Greene, "was feeling Reid up!"

Aaron thanks the many years' experience he has of schooling his emotions for managing to not show the shock and red-hot fury that Morgan's words cause. He watches as the Chief goes from red to pale, the man's mouth hanging slightly open as he stares at Greene. Hamill isn't as discreet – he is openly gaping, eyes flickering between Reid and Greene, and he's let go of Morgan. Aaron doesn't yet.

Greene is looking uncomfortable, though whether it's from Morgan's beating or the personal revelation Aaron doesn't know. The officer grimaces sheepishly and looks from Aaron to Morgan.

"I was asking him out! It's hardly a federal crime" he protests, lurching back when Morgan snarls and takes a step forward. Aaron tightens his grip on Morgan's arm, and he is relieved when Rossi steps into the middle, partly obscuring Greene from Morgan's view.

Reid speaks for the first time, and his voice is tight, angry. Aaron notices his lips are pale, and he's clutching at the door frame.

"I was handling it, Morgan. I can take care of myself."

"Like hell!" Morgan explodes, and Reid takes a step back, startled. Morgan looks slightly contrite as he continues. "He was cornering you. Don't tell me you weren't uncomfortable!"

Reid turns even paler, and his lips are frozen, barely moving as he speaks.

"We were just talking. I was about to move away as you entered and completely overreacted."

Morgan looks furious again, though at least his attention is no longer on Greene.

"Who knows what that scumbag would have done if I hadn't…"

Reid suddenly explodes into motion, banging his fist into the glass window of the office, making Morgan and everyone else jump slightly.

"What would he have done, Morgan?" Reid shouts, and then modulates his voice to a normal level, though the tone is icy cold. "Thrown me down and _raped_ me in the middle of the fucking police station?"

There's a rattling sound as the Chief knocks over a penholder, and a dozen pens roll over the desk and onto the floor. For a few beats, it's the only sound in the room. Aaron is numb with emotion as he watches the open-mouthed shock on the faces of Hamill, Al Black and the Chief, the sympathy in Rossi's face and the rush of guilt that washes over Morgan's. Greene looks completely flabbergasted, and then he sputters.

"What? I would never…! You don't think…. Dex? I just asked if he was seeing anyone!" The blond officer is looking slightly panicked as he looks between Aaron and the Chief. Aaron hardly notices it – instead he watches Reid deflate, his fury making way for an empty expression that quickly molds into horror as he takes in the expressions of those present – including Miss White's tearful face at the front desk, and a few officers seated at desks near the front, frozen in place, their eyes glues to the drama unfolding in the back.

Reid swallows visibly, and his cheeks are a dull red as he grows tenser by the second.

"I have to… I can't stay here," he chokes out, and then he pushes past Morgan and Hamill, ignoring Morgan's contrite gesture of a half-outstretched hand, and his "hey, man, Reid, don't go!"

Aaron watches Reid walk briskly through the station, his head down, back tense, and he desperately wants to run after him. But he knows he has to stay and deal with Morgan. Instead he looks at Rossi, and the older profiler nods once and then walks after Reid.

"Dex, can we continue the discussion in your office?" he asks levelly, and the Chief nods, still looking slightly shell-shocked.

"Morgan, wait in our office," Aaron says in a voice that broods no arguments, and he's relieved when Morgan simply nods and walks through the door.

"Al, Greene," the Chief says and gestures towards his own office. The two men follow him, and Aaron walks after Greene. As he turns to close the door, he watches Hamill crouch down to pick up the scattered pens and the other officers turning back to their work. He catches Miss White's eyes, and she offers a tentative, worried smile. Aaron nods to her, and closes the door.

The Chief sits in his chair, Al Black on the desk, and Aaron and Greene take the two chairs placed in front of the desk.

"First," Aaron hurries to say, his voice firm, "let me apologize for the behavior of agent Morgan. It is absolutely inexcusable."

The Chief frowns and holds up a hand.

"Now, Hotch, of course we'll agree that it shouldn't come to fights in the work place. But I told you all that flirting would get you in trouble sooner or later, Greene!" He fixes a stern look at the officer, who looks properly chastised. "We talked about it only last week, when John Collins nearly filed a complaint after you sweet-talked his sister before her late husband's funeral! Right, Al?" He looks at his Deputy for support, but Al Black doesn't seem to be listening. He looks at Greene with an incredulous expression.

"Damn, Greene, I thought you liked the ladies!"

The Chief looks as if he's about to scold his Deputy, but then he changes his expression and also looks expectantly at Greene. The officer runs a hand through his hair and looks moderately embarrassed, though he smiles slightly.

"Well, you know, I like a little of everything, really."

Aaron rubs his face with his hand, feeling slightly exasperated. He hopes Rossi has managed to catch up with Reid, and he desperately hopes that he can have a long talk with Reid later.

"Hotch?" The Chief is looking at him, and Aaron realizes he missed a question.

"Sorry?"

"Uhm," Greene starts, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, his expression earnest and worried. "Agent Hotchner, I swear I wasn't going to, err… do anything like agent Morgan suggested. Or, uh, agent Reid." Aaron realizes Greene doesn't even want to say the word out loud. Rape.

"I know, Officer Greene," he says, and Greene relaxes visibly. "Not that it in any way excuses agent Morgan's behavior, but… agent Reid was assaulted a few weeks ago, while we were on a case." He watches understanding wash over all three Carmine Falls officers' faces. "Our team is almost like a family. Most of us don't even _have_ a family outside it. When something happens to one of us, we all feel the injury of it."

Greene looks chagrined.

"Damn. I didn't know. I wouldn't have… damn, if someone attacked my baby sister, I'd beat the shit out of any guy who as much as looked at her." He ignores the slightly admonishing look the Chief gives him.

"Even so, you are still entitled to file an official complaint against agent Morgan," Aaron says, the lawyer in him unable to offer anything but justice. He does feel relieved, however, when both Greene and the Chief vigorously shake their heads.

"Nah, I won't. Of course not. But he can buy me a new shirt," he adds with a rueful grin, and Al Black chuckles.

"Very well. I'm glad we can sort this out without the paperwork. I will, though, insist on agent Morgan giving you an apology," Aaron says firmly. If not for Greene's fault, then for Morgan's.

The Chief looks happy, and stands to indicate that the meeting is over.

"Good! Now, we still have a killer to catch." And he sighs, as if wishing that the peace of the city as well could be solved with a quick punch and a heartfelt apology.

Aaron steps into the team's office. JJ and Prentiss have returned, and are trying to get a remorseful Morgan to talk.

"I need to speak with Morgan alone," Aaron says, and his expression makes JJ and Prentiss leave the office without a word. JJ touches Morgan's shoulder briefly as she walks past him.

The door falls shut, and Aaron sits opposite Morgan. The table is between them. Neither speaks for a long minute. Then Morgan looks up, his eyes dull.

"Hotch, I really lost it. I'm sorry. I just… got so mad. He had his hand on Reid's knee, and the kid looked totally frozen. Like a deer in the headlights. I don't know how he thought he could get out of it without panicking!" Morgan's voice is rising in agitation as he speaks. Aaron holds his gaze for a moment.

"Greene isn't going to make an official complaint. I hope you appreciate that, Morgan. And I told him to expect an apology from you." Morgan just nods, and Aaron sighs, letting his shoulders slump as he puts his forearms on the table. Morgan looks slightly startled.

"We agree that you overreacted. And I worry about Reid as well. But you know he hates being patronized." He holds up a hand to stall Morgan's protest. "Yes, it was patronizing, and you know it! He would have handled it. Greene would have backed down. Maybe he'd have been shaken afterwards, and needed to talk to someone – but right now, he's not just shaken, but hurt and angry, and probably not inclined to talk to anyone who watched his humiliation."

Aaron watches Morgan twitch, as if the words are hurting him physically. His own stomach is in knots, and he keeps imagining Greene sliding his hand along Reid's thigh, imagines the two of them sitting close together, remembering Reid smiling at Greene earlier. It's easier to be angry at Morgan right now. But he also knows it's unfair, knows that Morgan will punish himself much more than Aaron ever could. So he sighs, and rubs his eyes.

"Morgan, we all care about him. And we all feel guilty for what Harris did to him. I more than anyone, perhaps," he adds in a low voice, and Morgan stares at him with something close to sympathy. They are silent for a minute, and then Morgan clears his throat.

"I'm sorry, Hotch," he repeats, the hard anger completely gone from his face. "I'll talk to Greene. And Reid, when he wants to talk to me." He sighs ruefully, and Aaron feels for him. Knows Morgan is reacting so strongly because of what he himself has been through.

"Alright, Morgan," he says gently. They look at each other for a moment, and then both smile quickly.

"We still have an unsub to catch," Aaron says, standing up. Morgan does the same, and nods.

"Yeah, I'll ask Prentiss to go over the profile with me."

They leave the room, and Prentiss immediately approaches them. She looks between their faces, and relaxes minutely at what she sees.

"JJ has called for a press conference. The papers somehow got pictures of the latest victim. They're going crazy." They all look grimly at each other. JJ is using the phone at an empty desk. As Aaron looks in her direction, he sees Rossi returning. Without Reid.

"Excuse me," he says to Prentiss and Morgan, not waiting for their reaction before walking off. He meets Rossi by the front desk. Miss White is talking with an elderly lady – something about a cat and a pear tree.

"Where's Reid?" Aaron asks, not bothering to hide the worry in his voice. Rossi looks at him calmly, and Aaron feels the knot in his stomach loosening.

"He's gone back to the hotel. We went for a little walk. Didn't talk much. But I think he calmed down. He promised he'd stay in the room and wait for you."

"For me?" Aaron repeats, feeling slightly dumbstruck. Rossi looks at him searchingly before nodding.

"Yes. He said he knew you'd want to talk to him about what happened. Oh, and he asked me to tell Morgan he's not mad at him – but he probably shouldn't call him the first couple of hours." Rossi smirks a little, and Aaron feels relieved. Even more so when he turns his head and watches Morgan, a determined expression on his face, head for the Chief's office, where Greene is still talking with the Chief and Al Black.

"He'll be glad to hear that," he says, feeling an almost paternal pride at the thought of Morgan, who's as quick to apologize and make things right as he is to antagonize and mess things up.

"The profile is almost done. Morgan will go over it with Prentiss." Aaron looks back at Rossi, who nods.

"I think I'll join them. Why don't you go back to the hotel?" He catches the consternation on Aaron's face, and smiles. "We have your number. If anything happens, we'll call. But Reid needs you now." He meets Aaron's eyes for a moment, his expression pointed and – to Aaron's relief – encouraging.

"Thanks, Dave. And do call me if there's _anything_." He puts a hand on Rossi's shoulder, adding gentle pressure, and then turns to leave. Miss White calls after him, and as he swivels with a questioning look on his face, she hands him the large thermo cup, filled with fresh coffee. The warmth of his smile is echoed in the soft shine in her eyes.

* * *

Aaron slides the keycard through the lock and pushes the door open.

"Reid? It's me," he calls softly, in case the other agent is sleeping. Reid isn't, though, but stretched out on his bed, fully clothed, reading something on his phone –more obscure werewolf myths, Aaron suspects.

"Hey," Aaron says, watching Reid carefully. Reid puts the phone in his pocket and sits up, resting his back against the wall and hugging his knees to his chest. He looks at Aaron with a wary expression, as if he expects some kind of rebuke.

"Sorry for leaving," he mutters, and Aaron hands him the thermo cup before he slowly sits down on his own bed, keeping his body relaxed, casual.

"Don't apologize. I understand."

Reid takes a long gulp of coffee, then frowns, his eyes fixed on the floor between them.

"I shouldn't have left. We still have work to do. There was no reason for _me_ to be unprofessional."

Aaron looks at him, sees the slight tremble to his lips and the tense fingers, the slightly haunted expression in his eyes.

"_You_ weren't being unprofessional," he argues gently. "Greene isn't going to file a complaint against Morgan. Morgan has apologized to him. And no-one is going to question your actions, do you understand?"

Reid looks at him now, and his eyes are wide, wary, his breath rapid and shallow.

"Did you tell them? About Harris?"

Aaron quickly shakes his head, holding out a hand.

"I told them you were assaulted on a case, and that we are all still marked by it. They understand Morgan's reaction. But they don't know the details."

Reid's breathing slows down, and he looks at Aaron's outstretched hand.

"I was handling it. Greene, I mean." The words come out in a rush, and he keeps staring at Aaron's hand.

"I know, Reid. I told Morgan you would have handled it," Aaron says, his voice calm despite the roar of fury in his chest at the thought of Greene touching his—touching Reid.

"He sat next to me, and said he wanted to ask me about something," Reid continues as if he hasn't heard Aaron's assurances. "I figured it was about the case. I wasn't giving him my full attention. Then I felt his hand on my knee, and I just… froze. I wasn't _scared_, but… I tried to analyze what I was feeling. He asked me if I was seeing anyone, and I didn't know what to answer – and then Morgan came in and… freaked out."

Reid frowns, biting his lip, fingers clenching around his knees.

"I think I was mostly surprised, because the thought of what he was suggesting didn't frighten me. It was actually something I felt I could consider."

Aaron thinks Reid might as well have punched him in the guts. He feels as if all the air has left his chest, and he feels torn between the urge to grab Reid and take him, mark him as his own, and the urge to find Greene and finish what Morgan started.

Reid looks up, and his face goes blank with shock as he catches Aaron's expression.

"Oh, no, not with _him_! Hotch, I…" He lets out a frustrated sound, his hands running over his face. "I'm so bad at this! I'm not used to feeling these emotions, and certainly not talking about them. And I don't know how much is normal, and how much is reaction to—to Harris, and I just… I don't know what's normal to share with the person you'd like to…" Reid's voice is rising in agitation, and Aaron watches as he chokes up, expression slightly panicked, hands clenching and unclenching, and suddenly he can't take it anymore. He stands up, crosses the few feet between their beds and sits down in the space between Reid and the wall. He holds out his arms, not wanting to force anything, and feels relief as Reid immediately falls into his embrace. They hug each other tightly for a few minutes, Reid's breath coming out in harsh gasps while Aaron presses his face into the soft hair, his hands rubbing soothing circles on Reid's back and shoulder.

"I'm sorry," Reid mumbles, his breath calm again – he doesn't let go of Aaron, and Aaron doesn't let go of him as he says, "for what?"

"For being so… fragile. I feel stupid for not even being able to handle a small crisis."

Aaron keeps his breath even, and hugs Reid even closer.

"I don't think you're fragile. I think you've very strong. People react differently to things – you know it's useless to compare. It's only been two weeks, Spencer," he adds softly. "Give yourself time. And allow yourself to feel whatever you feel."

He can feel the sigh running through Reid's body.

"I feel… confused," the younger agent admits in a low voice. "I don't understand how I can feel the need for… physical contact, this soon after… Harris. But I do. And that's what I meant before, about Greene touching me. I don't want _him_, but the idea of being close to someone doesn't frighten me. And I think that for every good experience I have, what Harris did fades a little more away. And I…" Reid tenses and pulls away, and Aaron reluctantly lets him go.

"I think about you all the time. About what happened between us. And I—I want it to happen again. But I'm not sure why you want to… be with me." Reid's eyes are downcast as he speaks the last words softly, his body tense, coiled.

Aaron looks at him, at the expressive features of his face, the long, defined contours of his body, the soft, yet masculine beauty. He thinks of Reid's movement, graceful even in their restlessness, the way his eyes shine when he launches into one of his lectures, the way he becomes self-conscious and bites his lip, hesitates, holds back the words, when he doesn't know if he's overstepped the social bounds, the way he smiles shyly when he makes others laugh at his science jokes or magic tricks. He thinks of the brilliant mind, that none of them can really comprehend or understand, but are all grateful for, and all the compassion, dedication and empathy there's somehow still room for next to all the facts – and he thinks of Reid's anxiety to become like his mother, trapped in his own complex prison.

Aaron thinks Reid doesn't see himself very clearly at all, and his throat tightens with an undefined emotion.

"I like you," he settles for saying, clearing his throat when the words come out huskily. He touches Reid's arm softly, letting his hand run from the elbow to the shoulder. "I am very attracted to you. And the thought of someone else touching you makes me furious."

Reid's eyes flicker to his face.

"Wha—really?" His voice is both surprised and delighted, and he flushes slightly. Aaron nods, his hand caressing Reid's shoulder.

"Told you I could fly into a jealous rage, didn't I?" he says drily, and Reid nods, smiling tentatively.

"I'm just… a bit surprised you even considered it. Uhm, me, I mean," Reid says, and Aaron is glad to see him relaxing slightly. He nods encouragingly as Reid hesitates.

"I mean, I always assumed you were only interested in women. You were with Haley for a long time."

Aaron considers his words before replying. Of course the same thought has struck him several times over the last few weeks.

"I've always assumed the same, honestly. I met Haley when we were young. There was never anyone else for me – I never even considered that we shouldn't be together. When she left me, I was too busy with work to even consider something else. And after she died…" Aaron pauses for a moment, feeling the familiar cold rage at the thought of Foyet, and Haley's dead, bleeding body lying on the floor. He feels Reid's hand cover his own. "After she died, I thought I'd never want to endanger someone else like that, by letting them get close to me. It's not easy to have a life outside this job. You understand. It's part of the attraction." He smiles a little, trying to thin out the suddenly heavy mood. Reid is looking at him with eyes that are soft and vulnerable.

"I feel so dirty. Damaged." He whispers the words, and Aaron's chest constricts. He strokes Reid's cheek, letting his fingers linger. His voice is low and soft as he speaks.

"I think you're beautiful." Reid closes his eyes and swallows almost convulsively, his head tilting slightly to lean into Aaron's touch.

"I wish…" Reid sighs, and opens his eyes. Aaron brings up his other hand to frame Reid's face, his thumbs stroking over the prominent cheekbones, softly touching the edge of the dark circles under Reid's eyes.

"What, Spencer?" he asks, the warmth from Reid's face seeming to seep through his hands and spread into the rest of his body.

"I wish the circumstances had been different, the first time we… I know it's silly. It can't be changed." Reid sighs, and the gust of breath is like butterfly wings on Aaron's face. He thinks of their two bittersweet encounters, the first one born from desperation, and the second from despair. Both pleasurable, but tinted with the urge of comfort.

"I know, Spencer. I wish that, too," he admits, and Reid looks at him with a touch of sadness. "There's so much I would have done differently."

"Like what?" Reid seems takes aback, and he holds his breath as he looks expectantly at Aaron.

Aaron hesitates for a second. He is afraid to let his emotions take over, remembers Reid's awkward and stiff behavior this morning. But he realizes now that Reid was conflicted by his own emotions, confused about wanting the physical contact and at the same time feeling like he ought to fear it. Still, he knows, intellectually, that now is the time to back off, to give Reid more time.

But yet again, his body takes over before his brain is done debating.

"I would have made sure we had all the time in the world – like now," he says, his voice pitched low, and Reid lets out his breath in a rushed gasp. He keeps his hands on Reid's face, and Reid keeps his eyes glued to his face.

"And then I would undress you. Slowly. And kiss every patch of skin revealed."

Reid's breath is speeding up, and Aaron can almost hear his heart hammering.

"And when you're naked, I'll run my hands all over your body." Aaron notices his own switch to present tense, but he can't bring himself to change it. "I'll make sure you're well prepared, so well that you're ready to explode with the need, before I take you."

Reid closes his eyes and makes a small, mewling sound in his throat. Aaron pauses, not sure if it is positive or negative. Then Reid opens his eyes, and Aaron swallows a sudden dry lump in his throat at the hunger he sees there.

"Hotch," Reid begins, his voice low and husky. Aaron cuts him off.

"Don't call me that."

Reid looks confused for a second, blinking. Then his gaze grown heavy again, and he parts his lips, hesitating a second.

"Aaron." His name is a sigh on Reid's lips, and Aaron has to lean in and capture the sensuous mouth, steal the last notes of the sound as Reid sighs happily.

Aaron forces himself to slow down, to keep the kiss light and teasing and sweet. He doesn't want Reid to succumb to the hormones raging in his body, to give in to another slightly desperate reaction. Instead, he wants Reid to feel the slow build of passion, to surrender to the sensations – not as a reaction to something unpleasant, but as a want, a need, for something pleasurable and beautiful.

Aaron slowly strokes his hands down Reid's sides, his fingers edging under the hem of Reid's sweater. He breaks the kiss for a moment to look into Reid's eyes, and satisfied with the eager acceptance he sees, he pulls the sweater over Reid's head, tousling his hair, the static electricity making it float upwards like strands of seaweed.

Aaron smiles and runs his hands over the hair, smoothing it down, as he feels Reid's hand tugging at his tie, loosening it. When the tie is gone, the long, nimble fingers start on his buttons, and Aaron enjoys Reid's focused expression for a few moments. Then he obligingly shifts so Reid can slide the shirt off his shoulders, and as Reid places a warm hand on his chest, softly stroking, he starts to unbutton Reid's shirt. The long, pale arch of Reid's neck is revealed even more, and Aaron bends his head to nuzzle it, letting his lips trail over the warm skin, feeling the pulse beat…

"No!" Reid is suddenly shoving at him, lurching away. Aaron straightens, quickly, and is puzzled for a moment, until he sees Reid rub the side of his neck, his eyes averted. He remembers Harris forcing Reid's head back, licking his neck, biting into the jugular vein, and he wants to kick himself.

"Spencer, I'm sorry. I forgot." He holds out his hand in a placating gesture, hoping Reid will accept it.

"It's okay." Reid clears his throat and slowly lets his hand fall down his side, leaving his throat exposed again. "Sorry. I didn't know it would bother me."

Aaron touches his arm. "I don't want to do anything that bothers you. Please tell me. If you want to stop…"

"No." Reid smiles shyly after cutting him off, and Aaron is relieved. "Don't stop. I'll let you know if something feels… wrong. And," he hesitates, then takes Aaron's hand and places it on his neck, "it's okay. Really. Just… don't bite me there. Even lightly."

He looks slightly apprehensive, but Aaron simply nods. He kisses the soft, pliant lips until he feels Reid relaxing again, and then he slowly trails his mouth down Reid's jaw, the still slightly shocking sensation of soft stubble tickling his lips, and this time, when he softly presses his lips to the soft, pale skin of Reid's neck, he feels a slight vibration as the other man hums in pleasure. As he unbuttons the rest of Reid's shirt, he discovers that Reid makes interesting noises when he lets his tongue tease the juncture between the neck and shoulder, and that Reid squirms, not at all uncomfortably, when he nibbles at the sharp collarbones with his lips.

Aaron pushes Reid's shirt off the slender shoulders, and he barely has to add pressure to Reid's shoulder before the boy lies back on the bed. For a moment they simply look at each other, Reid on his back and Aaron hunched above him. Then Aaron remembers his promise, and he bends his head to trail his tongue over the firm muscles of Reid's chest, over the ridge of ribs, over the flat, flat stomach, which he just has to spend a few minutes kissing. Reid is emitting small moans that are almost driving Aaron crazy, and he has to stop his ministrations to Reid's stomach and instead kiss the tempting mouth, swallowing down the last few moans.

He places a hand on Reid's stomach, caressing it, sliding it down to rest just above the hem of Reid's pants.

"Is it okay," he asks, needing to be sure, and Reid nods wordlessly, his eyes wide, pupils dilated. Aaron unbuttons the pants, feeling his own growing even tighter as he notices that Reid is already hard and needy. He slides the tips of his fingers lightly across the boxer-clad erection, and Reid moans and bucks his hips.

"Easy, easy," Aaron says, and smiles as Reid mumbles a half-inarticulate apology. He gently eases the boxers over the hard length, and then slides both pants and boxers down Reid's long legs, taking the socks along as well when he reaches them.

And then he looks at the naked body spread out before him, for the first time getting a good and proper view. Reid's face is flushed, and the soft pink sheen spreads down to his neck and chest. The chest and stomach are heaving with the heaviness of Reid's slightly raspy breath. His arms and legs are spread slightly, fingers curling lightly into the sheets as if he is fighting an urge to cover himself up. The long legs are slender, with elegant, sinewy muscles, and Aaron is almost desperate to know what it will feel like to have them wrapped around him. He admires the narrow slope of Reid's hips, the hipbones prominent and almost begging to be grabbed and used for leverage. His eyes slide to the erection in the center, looking almost painfully hard and straining to rest on Reid's stomach. A single drop of viscous pre-ejaculation leaks from the tip like a teardrop, and Aaron bends down, intent on capturing it with his tongue. But Reid squirms away and whimpers "no!" and Aaron quickly withdraws, looking at Reid's face, worried.

Reid is not looking scared, and he grimaces a smile at Aaron.

"Please, don't. Or I'll be really embarrassed in a short moment," he says, voice shaky, and Aaron can't help but grin.

"I'll take it as a compliment," he says, and instead focuses his attention on the long legs. He licks the edge of the feet, which makes Reid giggle, kisses the ankles, the shins, the deliciously soft patch on the inside of the knees. When he reaches the thighs, taut with tension, he can smell the musky scent of Reid's arousal, and before he can help himself, he groans and bites gently into the soft flesh of the inside of the thigh. Reid yelps and flexes his thigh, and Aaron immediately pulls back, cursing himself.

"I'm sorry, sorry," he says, anxiously searching Reid's expression for any sign of discomfort. Reid looks back at him, eyes clouded over with lust.

"No, I—I liked that," he says, voice rough with lust, and Aaron kisses him hotly, attacking the warm mouth with his tongue.

"No, wait," Reid is saying, his hands gently pushing at Aaron's chest, and Aaron takes a deep breath, controls himself, pulls back slightly. Reid smiles at him, looking a little unsure, his hands sliding down to rest at Aaron's hips.

"You're a little overdressed," he murmurs, one hand resting at Aaron's belt buckle. "And I think you promised me there was something I could do next time. Which is now." He looks at Aaron with an expression that's both shy and eager, and Aaron groans as he realizes what Reid is asking.

"Only if you want," he says voice not as firm as he'd like. He traces his fingers over Reid's lips, and his mind nearly explodes at the thought of them wrapped around his aching hardness. Reid tongue comes out to gently lap at his fingers, and Aaron has to close his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, the dark and snarling lust he feels, trapped in his stomach like a caged animal, must be showing, because Reid looks slightly startled, then determined. His fingers work on Aaron's trousers, and soon Aaron finds himself stripped and lying on his back, Reid now resting on one arm to look down at him, their positions reversed.

Aaron enjoys the weight of Reid's gaze, the way the hazel eyes seem to drink in every detail of his naked body. Reid's hands touch his chest; shyly at first, but growing more bold as Reid gauges his pleased reaction to the touch. Fingertips travel over one of the scars left by Foyet, and Aaron sighs softly as Reid lowers his head to let his lips trail over one of nine reminders of one of the worst days of his life.

Reid kisses every single scar, almost reverently, and Aaron can feel his throat growing tight at the tenderness of the gesture. He caresses Reid's head, enjoying the tickling sensation of the longish hair brushing over his skin. Reid has reached the lower part of his stomach, and he seems as fascinated by it as Aaron was by Reid's. Aaron feels the soft kisses and teasing nibbles being placed around his navel, and he shifts his hips slightly, eager for Reid to go lower. The kisses slowly trail down, then hesitate and move up again, and Aaron realizes Reid must be nervous.

"Spencer," he says softly, and as Reid lifts his head enquiringly, he strokes the silky hair. "You don't have to," he repeats, even though everything in him is screaming the opposite. Reid blushes faintly, and lays his cheek against Aaron's stomach.

"I'm not sure what to do," he mumbles, looking so desolate that Aaron tugs gently at the hair beneath his hands, bringing Reid's head to his own.

"It's okay," he murmurs, kissing the warm lips, caressing them with his tongue. "Just do what feels good on yourself."

Reid quirks his lips into a slightly ironic smile. "In case you forgot, I've only felt it once."

Aaron smiles, strokes his cheek. "It's okay. I don't mind you practicing on me."

Reid blushes, but rolls his eyes before leaning down for a lingering kiss. Aaron wants to moan. He's always been partial to the intimacy of oral sex, but Haley was never a big fan of it. Not even with herself as the recipient, though Aaron has always been willing enough – eager, even. She gave in sometimes, but Aaron has always had a difficult time enjoying what feels like a sacrifice from the other person involved. He remembers Reid's reaction from two nights ago, and Aaron is almost desperate to discover if the enthusiasm goes the other way as well.

Reid slowly lets go of his lips, and presses a soft trail of kisses down Aaron's chest and stomach. This time he only hesitates a short second, and Aaron feels his mind go completely blank as a hot tongue slowly traces the length of his erection, leaving a wet trail. He props himself on his elbows, unable not to watch, and is rewarded with the sight of Reid closing his lips around the head of his erection, cheeks hollowing slightly as he sucks carefully.

Aaron can't stop the loud groan that escapes him. He makes eye contact with Reid, and seemingly encouraged by Aaron's vocal display of satisfaction, the boy sucks in another inch. What he lacks in finesse, he makes up for with enthusiasm, his tongue stroking Aaron's length, one hand stroking Aaron's thigh.

Aaron reaches down a shaky hand to stroke Reid's hair, caress his face. Reid moans around the hard length in his mouth, and Aaron is sure his mind is going to spontaneously combust when he suddenly feels his aching flesh slipping into the tightness of Reid's throat. Reid quickly pulls away, though, sputtering and gaggling slightly. Aaron keeps a hand on his cheek as he swallows a couple of times, tears spilling in reaction to the gagging reflex.

"Sorry," Reid mutters, and Aaron wipes his tears away with his thumb, makes a soothing noise.

"It's okay, Spencer, it's okay. You don't have to…"

"But I want to," Reid cuts him off, a determined look at his face as he looks almost challengingly at the erection in his hand. It twitches, and Aaron has to bite back a wildly inappropriate urge to giggle hysterically at Reid's incredulous expression.

He quickly forgets his mirth, though, when Reid bends his head and seems determined to pleasure him to death. His hair is spilling over his cheeks, tickling Aaron almost to the point of pained pleasure, and he runs his hands through it, letting his fingers trace the shape of the skull, gently tightening his fingers in the silky locks. Reid freezes and looks up at him, eyes slightly wary, and Aaron quickly reassures him.

"I'm not going to force your head. I just… like to feel your hair," he explains, feeling slightly stupid. Reid relaxes his shoulders at the words, and continues the slow, sensuous torture of bobbing his head up and down, careful not to take Aaron in too deeply.

After a few minutes, Aaron can't take it anymore. He tugs gently at Reid's hair, says, "stop, now" and moans as his throbbing, wildly protesting erection slides out of Reid's mouth with a soft popping sound.

"Was it—did I do something wrong?" Reid's face is flushed, his eyes are shining and his lips are glistening with wetness, but still he looks slightly worried. Aaron shakes his head, pulls Reid up, kisses him softly, tenderly.

"No, but I don't want to be embarrassed, either," he says with a slight smirk, and Reid looks happy. Aaron remembers another promise he still hasn't kept, and as he pulls Reid into an embrace, another lingering kiss, he lets his hands run all over the other man's body. He strokes every inch he can reach, feeling the soft skin stretched over taut muscles and jutting bones, the heat of the warm body pressed flush against his own, the rapid pulse beating.

With a gentle shove, he rolls them over so that he is hovering over Reid. They don't break the kiss, and Aaron moans into Reid's mouth when the younger agent automatically spreads his legs, letting Aaron nestle between them. Reid moans as well as their arousals slide together, and he rolls his hips, sucking at Aaron's tongue in a way that is making him lightheaded.

"Spencer," Aaron murmurs, pulling his head back slightly to look at Reid. His face is flushed, and he looks needy, expectant, and not at all anxious or wary.

"Aaron," Reid breathes, and Aaron doesn't think he'll ever tire of hearing his name like that. Reid looks at him, eyes huge, breath heavy. "I want… I want you to take me."

Aaron stares into the wide, trusting eyes, and it takes all his willpower to not just do as Reid asks and pound him into the mattress, to muster enough self-control to ask, "are you sure?"

Reid nods, and Aaron's reservations melt away as those long legs are now wrapping themselves around his waist.

"Yes." It's almost a hiss, and Reid tightens his legs, drawing them flush against each other again. They both moan, but Aaron is pulling back, gently untangling Reid's legs.

"Wait here. I just need to get something," he says in reply to Reid's slightly exasperated look. He slides out of bed and hurries into the bathroom, hoping Reid hasn't decided to throw out the complimentary mini-bottle of lotion. Aaron doesn't have the habit of packing anything resembling lubrication in his go-bag – though he considers whether it's time to change that – but the lotion should do the trick. As he returns to the bed, Reid looks at him with a puzzled expression, and he blushes when he sees the bottle of lotion.

"Oh, right," he says weakly, and Aaron watches a frown appear on his face. He sits on the bed, strokes Reid's arm and his voice comes out gently.

"Did you change your mind?"

"No, no. I just… do you have a condom?" Reid nods at the lotion. "Don't they usually go together?" He looks at Aaron, and suddenly his expression grows nervous, closed.

"I… I don't want you to feel disgusted by…"

"Spencer!" Aaron's voice is sharp, and Reid snaps his mouth shut, eyes huge and wary. Aaron modulates his voice to a softer tone as he continues. "I am not disgusted by you. Do you understand?"

Reid swallows, but he's back to just looking nervous. "But, he—Harris was inside me, and he left something of himself." Aaron watches him shudder visibly, and he wishes he could go back in time and put a bullet between Harris' eyes ten hours before Rossi did.

"And now _I_ want to leave something of myself," he says gently, "and make sure all traces of him are gone." He strokes Reid's face, watches the eyes fill with unshed tears, which Reid quickly blinks back.

"Harris was clean – they tested him," he adds, and Reid nods.

"I know. They sent me the results. I just don't like the thought that he's… soiled me." He takes a deep breath, and Aaron slowly lies down next to him.

"Sorry for ruining the mood," Reid sighs, then turns his head to look at Aaron with a hesitant smile. "I—I'd like to continue where we left off. If you want," he adds, slowly stroking Aaron's chest with his hand. Aaron doesn't bother with a reply, but captures Reid's lips once again, kissing him hungrily. Reid responds eagerly, and quickly the passion of minutes ago is restored fully.

Aaron nudges Reid's leg, kisses his jaw, his ear, tells him to spread his legs a little more. Reid complies, and Aaron pulls the cap off the bottle with his teeth, smearing lotion on the fingers of his left hand. He bends his head to kiss and lick one of Reid's nipples, and when the younger agent moans, he gently rubs lotion on the tight entrance to Reid's body, his fingertips massaging gently. Reid gasps and shifts his hips, but when Aaron looks up at him he smiles a tiny smile and says, "it's cold!"

Aaron smiles and kisses his chest, mumbles "it'll heat up soon enough" against the skin. Then he slowly slides a finger through the tight ring of muscles, kissing his way back up to Reid's mouth. He looks closely at Reid's face, but there's no trace of discomfiture, so he slowly moves the finger in and out, watching Reid's eyes turning darker.

As he adds a second finger, he kisses Reid again, hungrily, his tongue slowly thrusting in and out of Reid's mouth in rhythm with his fingers thrusting in and out of Reid's body. He feels Reid moaning into his mouth, his hips pushing back at Aaron's fingers.

"Is it okay?" he mumbles, and Reid nods and then gasps as Aaron curls his fingers slightly, brushing over the knot of nerves. Aaron firmly ignores his own body's impatient throb of arousal, intent on making it as good as possible for Reid. He adds more lotion and a third finger, and pauses immediately as Reid grimaces and makes a small sound.

"Too much?" Aaron asks, and Reid bites his lip and nods, looking contrite.

"Sorry," he mumbles, and Aaron kisses him softly, goes back to two fingers, and for a while they share languid, deep kisses, and Aaron feels like he could get lost in the sweetness of Reid's mouth, the tightness of his body.

"Try again," Reid whispers, and this time Aaron's fingers slide effortlessly into his body. Reid moans and thrashes his hips, and Aaron doesn't think he can wait much longer. He kisses Reid urgently, and Reid is clutching at him, drawing him between his legs.

"Can we stay like this?" he asks, and Aaron nods, kneeling between his legs. He pulls his fingers out of Reid's body and squeezes too much lotion into his hand when Reid whines in protest at the withdrawal. He smears lotion on his own erection, thankful when the cool liquid quells a fraction of the heat he already feels. Then he looks at Reid, and his chest feels tight as he takes in the flushed face, the fine sheen of sweat already breaking out from his overheated muscles, the chestnut hair spread out like a halo against the pillow, the eyes, wide and dark with passion and a vulnerable, trusting shine.

"Spencer," he whispers, hooking Reid's right leg over his arm, the other around his waist, before he positions his pulsing erection at the boy's entrance and slowly, slowly lets himself sink into the tight heat.

It is not the first time he's been inside Reid, but the luxury of this cannot be compared to the painful pleasure of their first experience. This time, he slides in effortlessly, and the way Reid changes his expression as he is slowly taken, filled, is the most erotic thing Aaron's ever seen. He is fully sheathed now, and doesn't move for a little while, giving them both a chance to adjust.

"Is it okay?" Aaron asks, needing to be sure. Reid is holding his breath, fisting his hands in the sheets, his eyes are half lidded, but he nods.

"Breathe," Aaron instructs with a small smile, which turns into a moan as Reid lets out a whooshing breath and tightens almost unbearably around him. He has to take several deep breaths before he runs his right hand over the flat stomach under him, covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and curls it around Reid's hardness.

"I'm going to move now," he warns, but Reid only groans and shifts his hips. Aaron tightens his hold on the leg slung over his arm before he pulls out, slowly, and then pushes in again, even more slowly.

"Ohh," Reid moans, his face twisted into a grimace – and Aaron has to make sure it's pleasure.

"Is it okay?" he repeats, and Reid's eyes fly open to fix him with a hard stare.

"Yes!" the younger agent snaps, and Aaron tries very hard not to smile at the exasperation in his voice. "I'll tell you if it's not. Just move!" And he shifts his hips again, tightens like a vice around Aaron, and Aaron groans, pulls out and resists the urge to slam back in, instead setting an even, smooth pace. He tries to stroke Reid in the same rhythm as his thrusts, but either he doesn't quite succeed, or Reid is too close to the edge already, because he bats Aaron's hand away. Instead, Aaron caresses his chest, his face, the mouth half-open in a frozen grimace of pleasure. He feels Reid's hand covering his own on Reid's leg, the other runs up his arm to stroke his neck, then tug insistently.

Aaron obligingly bends down to kiss the eager mouth, and the angle brings Reid's leg flush with his body, changes the angle of Aaron's thrusts, and suddenly Reid yelps and opens his eyes wide, gasping out Aaron's name in something sounding almost like panic.

"Did I hurt you?" Aaron stills his body, looking at Reid's slightly unfocused eyes, stroking his hands down the suddenly tense body.

"No, no," Reid moans. "Do that again." He writhes under Aaron's still body, bucking his hips as if trying to impale himself, and Aaron hesitantly pulls back and slides in, wondering if the angle is right for… Reid sobs into his ear, moaning a litany of "yesyesyesyes", his whole body tensing up again as Aaron brushes over his prostate. His legs spread even wider, hips surging up, and Aaron can't resist the primal begging, can feel himself too close to the edge already.

"Do you want it hard, Reid?" The words come out as a growl, and Reid stares at him, surprise breaking through the hazy lust of his expression for a moment. Then the hazel eyes seem to melt, turn into liquid passion, and Aaron kisses the mouth that says yes and please over and over again.

Then he groans as he slides his hands down the long legs, places them over his shoulders, and finally, finally sets a hard, furious pace, his hips pistoning against Reid's. Reid clings to him, claws at him, and Aaron thinks he's going to have trails from Reid's nails on his ass for days. The boy is moaning and exclaiming loudly enough for Aaron to worry about the neighbors knocking on the walls any second, so he bends down to muffle the sounds with a kiss, Reid moaning into his mouth as he is almost bent double.

Suddenly there's a soft knocking sound, and Aaron worries for a second that it actually _is_ a disgruntled neighbor – or even worse, Morgan at the door – but then Reid grunts softly into his mouth, and Aaron raises his eyes enough to see that the younger agent's head is banging against the wall, that Aaron has fucked them halfway across the bed with the force of his thrusts. He grabs the pillow, almost flings it at Reid's head, and Reid somehow wedges it between his head and the wall, his eyes desperate as he looks at Aaron, his fingers gripping Aaron hard enough to bruise.

"Please, please, harder—I'm so close, oh god, Hotch—Aaron, please!"

Aaron doesn't even attempt to muster any willpower – the frenzy of his body has overruled any connection to his brain, and in this very moment he has room for nothing else than him and Reid, his body's desperate urge to climax, his own desperate desire to make Reid scream his name.

He pushes Reid's knees to his chest, bracing his hands on them, moving his own knees to get even closer, and then he starts moving in fast, hard strokes, driving himself deep enough into Reid to make the boy scream out, deep enough to worry that he will never be able to fully get out again. His body is preparing for the ultimate pleasure, his mind is filled with Reid, Reid, and he leans down, craving the closeness, breathing in the scent, the breath, the essence of Reid, of Spencer.

"Spencer," he whispers, and they share a look that seems to go beyond Aaron's lust, his wants and needs, and into his very soul. And he feels utterly overwhelmed with emotion.

"Touch yourself," he breathes, clinging to the safety of their physical need, the here and now. Beneath him, Reid doesn't even look like he contemplates being embarrassed or shy about the request – his hand snakes down between their bodies to grasp his own erection, and the other digs into Aaron's shoulder.

Aaron kisses Reid almost brutally, and he knows it's only a matter of moments before he won't have any control left. Reid suddenly wrenches his mouth free from Aaron's, sucks in a breath, and Aaron mentally prepares for the scream he can almost feel building in Reid's chest. So he is surprised when Reid instead bites suddenly and painfully into his shoulder, his hand a blur between them as the force of his climax makes his body tight and unresponsive, curling into Aaron's as if Reid is trying to crawl into his skin, his body.

The sharp pain in his shoulder sends Aaron over the fragile edge of passion he's been skirting, trying not to fall over for so long now. He presses his face into Reid's neck and the pillow beneath it to muffle the scream that he can't hold back as his hips jerk uncontrollably, his release almost painful as it leaves him in great, throbbing spurts, filling up Reid so much that some of it spills back out.

Aaron isn't sure if maybe he passed out for a second or two. Moments or hours could have passed when he becomes conscious of his own pulse, beating like a drum in his ear, and Reid's slowing heartbeat reverberating through his body. He knows he's heavy on Reid, not supporting any of his own weight, and he almost can't bring himself to care, his body feeling as though it's gone boneless. But he catches Reid's soft moan as he feels the trapped legs beneath him trying to move, and with a groan he rolls to the side, his hands rubbing over the slender thighs, trying to help circulation.

Only then does he see the tears streaming from Reid's eyes, and the way he is breathing too carefully, controlled.

"Spencer," Aaron hears himself saying softly, tenderly, and he hugs the boy closely, can't bring himself to think the tears are of anguish or regret.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Reid is gasping, squeezing his eyes tightly shut, trying to shut off the tears. "I'm not hurt, I'm just… It was just so—so intense!" His voice breaks on a sob on the last word, and Aaron kisses him, kisses the tears away.

"I know," he whispers, and they are silent for a few minutes as Reid regains his composure. Then he turns his head to look at Aaron, his eyes shiny and sated.

"Thank you."

Aaron smiles softly, strokes his face.

"Don't thank me."

"But it was so wonderful." Reid's voice has taken on a dreamlike quality, and Aaron can see his eyes getting heavier. He suddenly yawns, and Aaron chuckles at his mumbled apology.

"Don't worry about it. Go to sleep. You need it."

"Mm…"

Reid's eyes slip shut, and it barely takes a minute before he's out cold. Aaron stays beside him for a few minutes, just looking at the soft, pleased smile that stays even in sleep. Then he reluctantly rolls out of bed, wincing as his shoulder and thigh complain about the unscheduled excitement.

He grabs his phone and looks at the time. 7 pm.

He doesn't trust his own voice, so he texts Rossi, even though he knows the senior agent hates communicating that way. Especially after Prentiss pointed out that he practically speaks like the young kids text anyway – short, concise and without any excess letters.

He is surprised when Rossi replies almost instantly, as if he's been waiting for Aaron to write.

'_all fine here. gave the profile. thought you wouldn't mind. press crazy. jj doing great. glad reid is ok. you don't have to come in. morgan and greene have gone for food. and beer. see you at 6 tomorrow for breakfast._'

Aaron smiles. And hopes Morgan won't have a hangover tomorrow.

He takes a quick shower and then gently wipes Reid down, making sure he won't stick to the sheets overnight. He strokes Reid's hair, pleased when the boy mumbles in his sleep and turns his head to Aaron's hand, almost as if seeking the contact even when unconscious. He thinks of Harris, cruel and brutal, and of Reid's brave resignation, even through anguish and terror. Then he thinks of Reid beneath him, almost ferocious in his passion, and as far from resigned as one could wish for.

Aaron allows himself to be happy.


	6. Shattered

Eye of the Hurricane

**Summary**: As the BAU team deals with a killer who doesn't seem quite human, Reid must deal with the aftermath of being raped, and sort out his relationship with Hotch. Sequel to one-shot "Shelter from Storm".

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Criminal Minds, nor do I make money from writing about it.

Un-beta'ed – any mistakes are my own.

**Warnings**: References to non-con Reid/OC. Rated M for the slashy stuff. Supernatural plot-elements.

Chapter 6: Shattered

* * *

Spencer looks at his reflection. He thinks he's dreaming. At least, he doesn't remember leaving the hotel in Carmine Falls and going back to Quantico. But here he is, in the bathroom, facing the mirror. He notices he's naked, but it doesn't bother him, because Hotch is standing next to him, looking at him with an almost fevered gleam in the eyes.

"Spencer," Hotch says, his face is hard, voice low, and Spencer feels his stomach tightening. Hotch steps up behind him, his arms circling Spencer from behind.

"You're beautiful," Hotch whispers, the dark eyes holding his own in the mirror. Spencer melts back into the other man, his eyes sliding shut. Hotch is spreading his legs, fingers harsly preparing him, and Spencer squirms, thinks it's a bit too painful. He opens his eyes, and recoils in terror as Hotch is looking at him with cruel eyes, his teeth bared in a snarling grin.

"Do you like that, my pretty whore?"

Spencer wants to wake up, knows this is just a dream, but he is trapped. Hotch is thrusting into him now, and Spencer feels the dull, throbbing pain of it. He sobs out a protest, and Hotch fists his hair, forces his head back.

"You begged for it, fucking filthy slut," he whispers, and suddenly the werewolf explodes from the man, and Spencer catches a glimpse of his own eyes, almost black with terror, before his view is reduced to dark fur and sharp teeth and then a splash of dark crimson as the beast rips out his throat…

Spencer jerks awake, heart hammering, hands shaking. He senses Hotch beside him, breathing deeply, relaxed. Spencer bites into his pillow to keep the scream that's building up in his throat from emerging.

He lies still for several minutes, frozen on the outside but raging with emotions on the inside, until his breathing is under control. Then he slips quietly from the bed, pausing on the way to the bathroom to make sure Hotch doesn't wake. He can't bring himself to look at the other man, but he hears the slow, steady breathing continue uninterrupted.

Safely locked in the bathroom, Spencer looks at the terrified, anguished face in the mirror and can't believe it's his own.

He tries to calm himself, tries to bring up the pleasant memories of what happened just a few hours ago, of the intensity, the tenderness, the all too unfamiliar feeling of being cherished, as if he was actually someone to be desired, to be… loved.

But it feels oddly detached, like he's trying to memorize a scene from a movie, as if it didn't really happen to him.

And he knows he's being punished for his suppression, knows it's a mild post-traumatic stress reaction – but somehow, the intellectual knowing is losing the battle with the physical feeling.

Spencer shakes, wishing for once he could cry, instead of this horrible feeling as if he's choking on his own emotions. A wave of shame washes over him, almost strong enough to make his knees buckle, as he remembers pleading, screaming, spreading his legs wider, begging for it like some…

_Whore, filthy slut, tight, little, virgin hole, fucking dirty whore. _

The words are Harris', but Spencer only sees Hotch's face, remembers it contorting in what he thought was pleasure, but perhaps was just an attempt to hide the disgust, the contempt. He remembers Hotch hiding his face as he found release, slamming into Spencer's body, hands gripping him hard enough to bruise…

Spencer's hands fly to his neck. He knows he won't see the faint shadow of five fingers, red against his pale skin. He feels petrified as his eyes travel lower, but he is unable to look away, unable to not discover… vague, finger-shaped bruises on his hipbone.

Spencer barely makes it to the toilet before he is violently ill.

When his body has finished its dry heaving, he splashes cold water in his face with shaky hands.

As he looks in the mirror, he sees something far scarier than his terrified expression from before – he sees dull, lifeless resignation.

Spencer looks at his wrist. He has always been partial to adjusting his watch to show the time two minutes ahead of actual, official time. It's silly, really, as he knows to retract two minutes if he needs to be synchronized with something. But the psychological knowledge of never being late is comforting.

His watch says 5.33. Hotch's alarm will sound at 6.00.

That leaves Spencer with 29 minutes to turn on the shower to very hot, slide to the floor of the stall and sob into a washcloth.

Spencer knows his body language and facial expression as he steps back into the hotel room is unnatural enough that even a non-profiler would notice it. He doesn't know how to change it. He aches on the outside, having scrubbed himself raw under too-hot water. And he aches inside, a ferocious, all-consuming, raging feeling of panic.

Hotch is reaching for his phone to shut off the silent, vibrating alarm as he walks in, his chest feeling oddly empty even though his heart is hammering at full speed.

"Good mo—" The soft words die on Hotch's lips as he catches sight of Spencer. For a second, his expression is utterly broken, and then he schools his face into careful neutral. Spencer wants to scream and cry and beg for forgiveness, beg Hotch not to loathe him. So he doesn't even dare open his mouth, barely dares to breathe, as he quickly starts to dress, keeping the towel around his hips until his boxers are firmly in place.

"Spencer." Hotch's voice is careful and demanding at the same time. Spencer only throws him the barest of looks as he pulls on a shirt and a jersey.

"I'm sorry," he says stiffly, because he knows he has to say _something_. "I—I can't deal with it now. I have to focus. On work. Without being emotional." The words are clipped, cold, and he feels as though he's breaking inside. "I'll go ahead to the station. I'm not hungry."

He's studiously not looking at Hotch, but he can almost feel the weight of the other agent's look, can almost see the familiar face setting in a determined expression.

"Spencer, don't leave like this, I beg yo—"

Spencer can feel the small fractures as his carefully composed detachment starts to crack, and the panic inside is fighting to escape. And it's in the attempt to trap it, lock it securely back in, that he can hear his own voice reaching a note just short of hysterical as he yells his next words.

"Just let me do my job, Hotch! It's—" _all I'm good at, all I have to live for, all I'm worth_, "—just leave me alone. Please."

He hurries to the door, still not looking at Hotch, knowing that he will break and shatter into tiny pieces if he does. He hears the controlled, even breathing, senses that Hotch hasn't moved just a tiny bit since Spencer entered the room.

"Did I hurt you?" Hotch's voice is hesitant, concerned and something else Spencer can't quite define. If it wasn't Hotch, he would label it insecure. Spencer only has a fraction of a second to think before he replies. And he loathes himself for saying the only words he knows will buy him some time.

"Yes. Yes, you did."

He practically flees the room, then, his chest heaving with the force of holding in the thousand shards of regret swirling around like a maelstrom, his ears assaulting him with Harris' voice screaming _filthy slut, dirty whore_, his eyes with the images of Hotch's repulsed expression, the gleam of contempt in his eyes – all in confused juxtaposition to the sound he hears just before slamming the door; the sound of his name called in a voice that's choked, broken.

* * *

The police station is empty and locked when Spencer reaches it. He's thankful the town is practically dead this time of morning, as his driving, mediocre at best, would probably have had him arrested by one of the locals.

Spencer sits on the stairs and waits, counting on Miss White or someone else to meet early. He goes over victim facts in his head, over and over, not as much searching for another clue as keeping his brain busy, distracted.

"Reid?"

He looks up as the hesitant voice registers, and his heart sinks when he sees Greene standing on the sidewalk. The Carmine Falls officer looks surprised, nervous. His hand is frozen in a half-outstretched motion, holding a set of keys.

"Good morning," Spencer greets, forcing his voice to be calm and neutral. "I'm a little early. I wanted to go over something."

"Yes," Greene says, but he still doesn't move. Instead he clears his throat and seems to stand up straighter, and Spencer groans inwardly at what he knows is about to ensue.

"Look, Reid, I can't tell you how sorry I am for…"

Spencer cuts him off, doesn't care if it's rude.

"Don't mention it. _Really_," he adds curtly when Greene looks like he might protest. They look at each other for a moment, and Spencer thinks there must be something in his eyes that tells Greene any pursuit of the case will not be welcome. The local officer looks rather dejected as he approaches the steps, carefully staying as far away from Spencer as possible when he navigates them.

"Come on in, then," Greene says as he unlocks the door and punches in a sequence of numbers on the flashing and beeping alarm. "Miss White is usually here around seven. I can make coffee if …"

"No, that's fine," Spencer cuts him off, adding a stiff, "thank you". Greene simply nods and heads for his desk, and Spencer hurries into the team's office. He shuts the door, closes the blinds in front of the glass windows, and then slumps into a chair.

For a long moment, Spencer ponders if life is actually worth living. But the thought stays detached, theoretical, and Spencer is glad to realize that despite its state of terror, his brain is not capable of overruling the most primal of instincts; survival. Oddly, this comforts him more than any rational thought he can come up with on his own.

What doesn't comfort him, though, is his brain supplying the quickest and most efficient solution to quell its own anxiety and slip into oblivion: Dilaudid.

Spencer is afraid he is not capable of reasoning against his own brain for long.

When the team arrives, he is staring at the map with the victims' pinned locations. As much as he tries, he cannot see a pattern, which only supports their profile of an unsub killing at random. Still, it frustrates him, and he feels as though there's something he's missing, something that should be obvious. And he is using most of his energy to push back the voice at the back of his head that keeps telling him that he will see things so much clearer if only he gives in, drugs himself, gives the part of his brain that's anxious a rest so the other part can work so much clearer and sharper.

Spencer feels his own tension cutting into him like a knife when the door opens, and Rossi and Morgan enter, in the middle of a discussion, JJ right behind them.

"… can't believe the results are still not in! I'll call Garcia and have her work more magic on those lab guys. Or maybe Hotch should just call them directly." Morgan sounds annoyed, his shoulders are tense, and he is studiously not looking at Spencer. Rossi takes time to nod at him, though, and say a polite "morning, Reid". JJ smiles at him, hesitantly, looking as if she wants to say something, but is holding back.

Spencer feels annoyance bubbling right beneath the surface of his skin. He doesn't know if JJ thinks he's going to flip out, or whether Morgan is upset at not hearing from him after yesterday's debacle. He grits his teeth, and Rossi merely lifts an eyebrow and turns back to Morgan when his greeting isn't returned. Spencer feels a twinge of guilt.

Prentiss strides into the office, and Spencer wonders where Hotch is. And his throat is suddenly burning as he remembers biting into Hotch's shoulder the night before, hard enough to leave the faint metallic taste of blood on his tongue. And he wonders if, after his own behavior this morning, Hotch will even bother talking to him ever again. He also wonders if he will be forced to ask for a transfer, to save Hotch from having to make the decision to transfer either himself or Spencer. He can't help but feel a fleeting touch of sympathy for Rossi – so this is what happens when you cross that limit and give in to fraternization.

He vaguely registers JJ speaking to him, but he blocks her out, annoyed, lost in his gloomy thoughts.

Suddenly, a hand is touching his arm, and he feels as though a thousand ants are crawling there, the sensation almost physically hurting him. He lashes out, reflexively, shoves the hand away forcefully.

"Don't touch me!" The words are practically a snarl, and for a fleeting moment he is surprised at his own violent reaction. Then he looks up into the shocked, frozen faces of Rossi, Prentiss and Morgan, and JJ's tearful one. She's cradling her hand to her chest, and Spencer thinks it has more to do with her shock than because he actually hurt her. But still he feels his heart sinking as remorse washes over him.

"Sorry." JJ's voice is weak, trembling. She tries to smile, but it turns into a pained grimace, and she flees the room. Spencer scrambles to his feet, and he barely acknowledges Hotch appearing in the doorway as he pushes his way through, roughly shoving his unit chief out of the way.

"JJ!" he calls, following her behind Miss White's desk and into the small kitchen in the back. Miss White looks aghast at JJ's tearful face, and then at Spencer, her eyebrows drawn together in confused disapproval.

Spencer thinks she must believe them all to be somewhat crazy, creating more inter-personnel scandals in two days than the Carmine Falls police station has probably seen in ten years.

"JJ," he repeats, insecure, watching as the blonde agent wipes beneath her eyes with a tissue. Then she sends him a look that's both sad and angry.

"Spence, I know you're under a lot of stress. And I forgive you for almost punching me in the face." She smiles quickly, but Spencer feels even worse. "But I'm worried about you. And so are the others. Even Hotch – I've never seen him look so… upset as he did when he told us you'd left earlier."

Spencer quickly dismisses the faint shiver he feels at that statement.

"I'm sorry, JJ. So sorry." He tries to convey the remorse he feels in his pleading look, and he sees her relax slightly, her eyes clear and un-teary. Spencer is glad – he's had some of his worst moments of social anxiety in the presence of weeping women. They freak him out just a little bit.

"I'm… a bit besides myself. I keep having nightmares about—about the werewolf." He hopes JJ of all people will understand this, but she frowns.

"Really? I thought you didn't believe in that? And you haven't seemed fazed by that aspect of the case at all. Of course, I'm not a profiler," she adds wryly, and Spencer grimaces slightly. He should know not to underestimate female intuition. Although, statistically, men are just as likely to experience the so-called sixth sense as women, and the concept of female intuition stems from way back when women knew how to care for a child, and men didn't, and therefore were slightly in awe of the woman's seemingly supernatural instincts.

But Spencer digresses. He sighs, rubs his hands against his arms.

"You're right. I do dream of werewolves, but it's mainly… Harris turning into one and eating me." And Hotch. But he doesn't disclose that. Instead he tries for a smile, but JJ is looking at him with a soft, sympathetic expression. She reaches out a hand, as if wanting to touch his arm, but quickly lets it fall back against her own side.

"I'm sorry, Spence. I dream every night, too," she confesses, eyes watering again. Spencer hesitates for a moment, then reaches out his hand and squeezes her shoulder softly. She lights up in a small smile and looks like she wants to hug him. She doesn't, though, for which Spencer is grateful.

"I'm looking forward to being done with this case," she sighs, and Spencer can only nod in agreement. "I need to prepare another press conference for later. They managed to track down Timothy Pears' mother, and she's been screaming left and right about the werewolf. Fortunately, they think she's a bit crazy."

JJ laughs, but it sounds hollow. Spencer wonders who the crazy ones really are, in this case.

Spencer walks back through the station, mentally squaring his shoulders before he enters the office again. From the quick, hard look Hotch gives him, he can tell one of the others filled him in on what happened with JJ. He returns the look for a moment, wondering if his own gaze is as challenging as he feels, hastily looking away again when Hotch's gaze hardens into something dangerous.

Morgan is still bitching about the lab technicians, his face set in a grim expression.

"Let's wait until eight and give Garcia a call. Sounds like they never derive from their set working schedule," Rossi says in his usual unfazed manner, and Morgan nods quickly, picks up a file from the table and leaves the room.

"Bet you ten bucks he's going to call her anyway right now," Rossi remarks idly, and Spencer mumbles something in reply as Prentiss snorts and Hotch is quiet. A sudden thought has struck him, and he mentally leafs through the victims' files.

"The time!" he exclaims, swirling to face Rossi. He feels elated, almost ecstatic, as his mind fills with facts and theories, pushing all other thought aside.

Rossi looks slightly puzzled, glancing quickly at his own watch.

"What about it? Are you in a hurry for something?" Spencer doesn't miss the slight admonishment in the words, but he continues his train of thought. He registers Prentiss and Hotch turning their heads to look at him, and is relieved when his brain kicks into what the others always refer to as _lecture mode_.

"No, the time of death of the victims. They have all been established to be somewhere between 11 pm and 3 am on the particular night the victim was killed. But the cause of death differs. We have eight victims now – five died from the blow to the head as they were knocked to the ground, but three died due to blood loss. It is clear that they were all knocked to the ground, but only five of them were lucky enough to die immediately. The other three were still alive when the animal – or unsub – started tearing into their bodies. The five who died from the blow to the head were all rather precisely tagged as having died between midnight and one. However, it is much more difficult estimating the time of death due to blood loss. It can take hours or minutes to die, depending on the extent of the injuries. So those three victims were estimated to have died between the hours of 11 pm and 1 am, midnight and 2 am and 1 am and 3 am, respectively. Wouldn't it be a logical leap to assume they all died between midnight and 1 am?"

Spencer looks expectantly at the others – though his eyes quickly skip past Hotch's dark, inscrutable look – and his sense of relieved elation doesn't leave him. Rossi is frowning, and Prentiss is nodding.

"It makes sense," she says. "And it fits with the profile that says our unsub is meticulous even in his seeming randomness. A set killing time is logical. If he feels, somehow, that all the victims need to be punished, he could have the time as a part of his ritual."

"And what of the profile that says the unsub is randomly picking victims?"

Rossi asks the question, and Spencer feels momentarily confused.

"Wait," he interrupts, "you gave them _both_ profiles? When was that?"

He feels himself flushing as they all look at him, Hotch darting a quick look at Rossi before answering.

"Yesterday afternoon. You were sleeping." His voice betrays nothing, and Spencer hopes his own expression is as blank as he nods.

"Oh. I see. But still, it makes sense," he continues, latching on to his train of thought again. "In profile A, our unsub sees himself as righteously vengeful. He feels personally or professionally insulted by the crimes the victims have committed, or perhaps he has a connection with the victims that makes the nature of their crimes inconsequential, but still makes him disappointed in them. He feels they must be punished, and he is using the old town myth of a werewolf to mask his killings. This indicates that he's obsessive to some degree. A fixed time for killing his victims would not be surprising.

If our unsub is really just killing at random, just for the pleasure of it, and he has no knowledge of or connection to the victims, there could still be a reason for him being out at this time. It's natural to assume he's walking his dog. Did you…?"

Rossi nods before Spencer can ask his question.

"Yes, half the local force is knocking on doors, asking if anyone's seen someone walking their big dog at night."

"Maybe he has a job that gives him a break at that time," Spencer muses, and Rossi nods again.

"Alright," Hotch breaks in, his tone efficient and brisk. "If we can narrow down the time of death in all victims to between midnight at 1 am, we're already a step further. Reid, do the old victim files from forty-three years ago say anything about time of death?"

Spencer shrugs, frowns at the box of the old case files which is resting on the table, almost seeming to glare mockingly back at him.

"Nothing precise. The victims all died at night, though. There was only one coroner back then, and many things can be established so much more precisely today than forty-odd years ago. But even those victims who were found during the day were estimated as having died at night, and they would have known to narrow it down to an interval of some hours at least, even back then."

Hotch nods, and looks at Rossi.

"Will you tell the Chief? And ask Morgan to call those kennels you found and find out if anyone remembers a buyer that matches the profile. Any of them."

Rossi nods and leave, and Prentiss heads for the door as well.

"I'll find JJ. The next press conference is later today."

Spencer suddenly finds himself alone with Hotch. He clings to the task of finding new patterns based on the new information, but his concentration falters when Hotch softly but surely closes the door behind him and takes a step closer, his expression grim.

"Hotch," Spencer begins, letting his annoyance color his voice. He can't believe Hotch is about to corner him like this, and his stomach throbs dully with the knowledge that they will never be able to remain fully professional, that the crossed line of their relationship will most likely end with one of them being forced to apply for a transfer. To avoid situations like these.

"Shut up."

The harsh, low words pull Spencer out of his reverie more efficiently than if Hotch had slapped him in the face. He knows he looks shocked as he stares at the other man, at the furious expression, hands fisted tightly, stance rigid.

"Spencer," Hotch is saying slowly, and for once the sound of his name on Hotch's lips does not send a pleasant tingle down his spine, but rather a chilling, ominous one, "I **demand** to know if you are in any kind of physical pain or mental state that prevents you from doing your job. If you even think of lying to me, you will be on your way home within the hour, and you will not return to work for a long time. Do you understand?"

Spencer feels hot and cold at the same time. He opens his mouth, but no sound emerges. Hotch's eyes are boring into his, and only Spencer's recent intimate familiarity with the emotions those cold, hard eyes are also capable of lets him see the underlying concern. And it gives him the courage to be honest, to believe, despite his confusing thoughts, that Hotch is honestly concerned with his welfare.

"I'm not hurt," he whispers, clearing his throat a few times to get his voice around the dryness. "I'm sorry I said it. Really. I just needed time to think."

He sees some of the tension leaving Hotch, his shoulders relaxing by a fraction. He still looks expectantly at Spencer.

"I had another nightmare. It unsettled me. I had such a hard time shaking it off, and it's… made me see some things in a different light. I need time to think. But I'm not going to let it interfere with my job. I swear, Hotch." He hates how pleading his voice is, but the thought of leaving, of going home to an empty apartment and endless psychological evaluations, makes him feel sick, empty. He swallows nervously, not daring to look away from Hotch's gaze.

"You'll have weekly sessions with Dr. Graines when we return. Until I say otherwise. And tonight we will talk. And I mean _talk_. If you manage to convince me of your relatively sane mental state the rest of the day, I will re-consider not sending you home tomorrow. Do you understand?"

Spencer feels his body going rigid, not with fright or horror, but anger, with the injustice of it. "Fine," he grounds out, staring right back at Hotch, whose hard looks falters for a moment. "I understand. But then I hope you will remember that you have contributed to my _mental state_." He spits the words at a grim-looking Hotch. "And please leave me alone now, so I can compartmentalize in peace. You distract me."

They stare at each other for a moment – Spencer doesn't break the eye contact, and neither does Hotch. Finally the unit chief nods.

"Fine. I'll leave you alone. Until tonight."

He turns and leaves the room.

Spencer takes a deep breath, feeling as if he just dodged a bullet. He's not quite sure whether he would rather have been shot down.

* * *

Spencer is on his way to the kitchen – and coffee – when Morgan catches his attention and urgently waves him to the back of the room. He has his phone out, and Spencer assumes Garcia is calling.

"Hey, baby girl," Morgan greets.

"I spoke with the lab. They… are you all there? I don't want to repeat myself." Garcia's voice is terse, tense, and Spencer shares a look with Morgan. He suspects the other agent has also noticed the lack of Garcia's usual quick remarks and playful banter.

"Hold on," Morgan says, catches Rossi's attention and urgently gestures towards the team's office. Hotch has already spotted them and is nodding at Prentiss to follow.

"JJ!" Morgan calls, and gestures for her to end her phone call when she swivels her head.

"Okay, we're all here, Garcia. Talk."

They are standing in a loose circle, Morgan's outstretched hand holding the phone in the middle.

"It's… weird stuff," Garcia says, and they hear her clear her throat a few times. "They weren't actually being slow, but they had to run the tests twice to make sure they were… true." She pauses, and Spencer sees Prentiss and Rossi exchange an impatient glance.

"And? What were the results?" Hotch demands, his brows drawn together.

"There was no match for the DNA," Garcia says slowly, and when she doesn't continue, Morgan sighs.

"So he has no criminal record. We expected as much. What's weird about that?"

"No, it's not like that," and now there's a faint note of something unfamiliar in Garcia's voice – if Spencer didn't know her better, he'd call it hysteria. "The DNA didn't match _anything_. It's not human. Not canine. Not… matchable to any kind of known animal or human species. Whoever—whatever the killer is, it's not human!"

JJ has brought a hand to her mouth as Garcia speaks. Spencer thinks she looks like she might be sick. The rest of the team is staring at Morgan's phone in disbelief. Spencer is churning the words around in his head, trying to work out a rational explanation, but all he keeps hearing is Prentiss' summary of the interview with Martha Coleman, and what the old lady said about the wolf's eyes: intelligent, observant, calculating. _Human_.

The door is suddenly flung open and the Chief enters, his expression drawn and grim. He stops dead in his tracks as he catches sight of the six frozen agents, and his expression turns surprised.

"Oh, you already heard?"

Hotch looks from Morgan's phone to the Chief.

"Heard what?"

Spencer can't help but admire the unit chief's ability to compose himself in a matter of split seconds.

"There's another body. Jonah Smith. I—I knew him. We used to go fishing together, before…" The Chief seems to shake himself. "But it's not like the other kills. He doesn't have a mark on him. There's blood near him, though. And his son, Marcus, has several records of petty theft."

He finally seems to notice the open phone, which Morgan hasn't bothered to shut.

"Do you… have news?"

No-one speaks for a second. Then Hotch clears his throat and looks directly at the Chief.

"Garcia – our technical analyst – has just told us of the lab results for the DNA from the victims. They cannot match the DNA to any known type of species."

The Chief looks utterly puzzled for a second, and then his face turns into an odd mix of triumph and horror.

"Not even human?" The words are slow, careful. Hotch doesn't break their eye contact as he shakes his head, just as slowly.

"I'll be… AL!" The Chief yells for his Deputy, and Al Black sprints into the office a moment later. He looks hassled, his eyes flickering between all of them.

"Dex? You look like you've seen a ghost?"

The Chief is slowly shaking his head, and he fixes his Deputy with a somber look.

"Not a ghost, Al. A werewolf."

Spencer has never seen a person look as incredulous as Al Black does in this moment.

"What?" The Deputy looks at his Chief with clear suspicion, then at Hotch who nods and repeats Garcia's information.

"But, but," the Deputy splutters, "there must be another explanation!"

Spencer is liable to agree with him – and he suspects the rest of his team is, as well, with the notable exception of JJ.

Suddenly, there's a wheezing sound, and Spencer looks in alarm at the Chief who's gone red in the face as he bends over, clutching at his chest. He sees Prentiss and Rossi both take a step forward in alarm, but then the Chief straightens, tears rolling down his cheeks, and they all realize he's laughing. Spencer suspects it's a part nervous, part relieved reaction.

The Chief lifts a heavy hand and points at Al Black, says between laughs:

"Al, I believe you owe me a hundred bucks!"

* * *

They are heading for the latest crime scene. Spencer is sitting in the back, Morgan and JJ in the front. Morgan is driving – JJ still looks slightly shocked. Garcia is on speaker phone.

"Derek, I'm telling you, I'm freaking out. Freaking out! Please tell me it's possible for them to make a mistake like that. Or I'll never lave my apartment again. Never! What? No, Kev, of course it's not some sort of joke! Have you ever met a lab technician with a sense of humor?"

Morgan's face is stoic through her monologue, but he catches Spencer's eyes in the rear mirror, and suddenly Spencer has to bite back a laugh.

"Hey, Garcia," Morgan says, interrupting her babbling, "of course this is some kind of mistake. You know there's no such thing as a werewolf! Really," he adds with emphasis, looking at JJ who is studiously looking out the window, her shoulders tense. "It must be some kind of odd breed of dog or wolf or whatever that they can't identify, and they haven't managed to separate the animal and human DNA well enough."

"But they ran the tests twice!" Garcia protests, and Morgan looks grim.

"So they made the same mistake twice! We're gonna catch this guy, and then it'll all be explained."

"I hope you're right. Or I swear, I'll never sleep again. And I'll wear a silver armor to work. And garlic in my hair."

Spencer clears his throat and leans forward through the front seats.

"Actually, Garcia, garlic is traditionally thought to scare off vampires, not werewolves. And while the myth of silver is persistent, it is more likely a result of silver being very valuable in the times where the werewolf myth started, and thus thought to be the best alternative, as opposed to the more common lead, which…"

"Quiet, Dr. Genius! Let me have my neuroses in peace! Oh forget it, I'll return to work, or I'll go nuts. Later!"

The call is disconnected.

Spencer notices JJ fiddling with a bracelet. He thinks it's new. He's never seen her wear silver before.

They arrive at an alley between two industrial buildings. One produces matches – _"We light up your life!"_ – and the other cat food. A huge banner displays a grey cat with big, yellow eyes – Spencer thinks it's an Abyssinian – looking down at them. Spencer almost wants to ask the cat what it's seen – if there's really been a werewolf at the scene.

Instead, he follows Morgan to the sheeted body. Jones, the crime scene technician from the day before, is already there.

"Hello again," he greets jovially, nodding to all of them in turn. "As you can see, there's not a mark on this one."

He pulls the sheet off, and they stare at the body of a man in his fifties. Unlike Timothy Pears from the day before, there's no trace of blood, and no intestines hanging out. Like Timothy, however, this man's face is also contorted in horror, his mouth open in a frozen scream. JJ makes a small sound and turns away, practically running to one of the SUVs. Spencer sees Hotch shake his head at Prentiss before going after JJ himself.

"Can you tell us anything about the cause of death?" Rossi asks Jones. The technician purses his lips thoughtfully.

"Most likely a heart attack. I partly base the guess on the knowledge that he had a heart condition. Chief Dex told me on the phone. They were acquaintances?"

"I believe so, yes," Rossi replies, and Jones nods.

"Well, I'll know for sure when we've looked him over. But it seems like the most logical conclusion. And…"

He seems to hesitate, but Rossi nods encouragingly at him. The technician furrows his dark brows, then smiles wryly.

"I know it's not a technically correct cause of death. But if you asked me, based on his expression, I'd say he was scared to death."

Rossi darts a quick look at Prentiss, Morgan and Spencer. Jones chuckles darkly.

"I've heard the werewolf story. Quite fascinating, yes? I'll tell you it was no human who gnawed off Timothy Pears' colon. Nor inflicted any of the other wounds on the remaining victims. But I don't believe in the supernatural."

"The DNA was unknown. No species match."

Spencer blurts out the words, wanting to gauge Jones' reaction. The crime scene technician fixes him with a surprised stare. Spencer thinks he looks slightly scared.

"Is that so? Ah, those lab techs make mistakes all the time."

It doesn't take a profiler to tell the man doesn't believe his own words.

"I must bid you farewell. Mr. Smith and I have a date with a scalpel."

Jones nods brusquely to them all, and bends down to cover the body. He hesitates slightly before covering the terrified, dead eyes of Jonah Smith.

JJ and Hotch return, followed by the Chief and Al Black.

"Shit, Dex, I'm sorry," says Al Black, clasping the shoulder of the older man. The Chief is shaking his head, looking at the body of Jonah Smith now being loaded into the waiting ambulance.

"He was a good man. Knew him for ages. Damn!" He suddenly pounds a fist into the brick wall, then winces and shakes his hand. "What does this son-of-a-bitch killer _want_? Jonah was the most honest man you'd ever meet! And he was so sad to see Marcus turn to petty crimes. And so was Julia. This'll kill her."

Prentiss looks sympathetic as she steps closer to the Chief.

"Dex, we know Jonah Smith was with his son. Has anyone… located him?"

The Chief shakes his head, as does Al Black.

"No. Julia – she's Jonah's wife – confirmed that Jonah and Marcus left together around 11 pm last night. Marcus came over and wanted to discuss something with his dad. She said he looked nervous, upset. She went to bed soon after, and only discovered that Jonah hadn't returned when she woke this morning."

Hotch looks at the Chief and Al Black.

"We need to talk to his friends, find out if anyone knew if he stole something recently. And I think we should talk to friends and acquaintances of the other victims as well. Maybe the connection lies in the object of the crimes itself, rather than the persons committing them."

The Chief nods, throws a final look at the ambulance leaving with his old friend, and then he turns to Al Black.

"I'll get Hamill and Red on it immediately," the Deputy affirms, pulling out his phone.

Spencer gets a sudden thought.

"Hey, Prentiss, didn't Martha Coleman mention that something was taken from Harry Hills when he was killed? A crucifix? Maybe she knows where it's from?"

Prentiss frowns, and Hotch is looking at her.

"One of Hills' friends gave it to him. Uhm…" She hesitates, and Spencer pulls the name from his mind.

"George Sloane?"

The Chief gives him a sharp look.

"Sloane? What's with him?"

"You know him?" Prentiss looks enquiringly at the Chief, who nods, frowning.

"Sure did. He died a few years ago. Never liked the man. One thing is stealing, but quite another is supplying drugs to the young kids. The man had no morals."

"He gave Harry Hills a silver crucifix, to remind him of his late father. That sounds like a nice gesture," Prentiss says, and the Chief snorts.

"Ha! Nice! He probably stole it from somewhere and got cold feet and needed to pawn it off on someone else. George Sloane didn't have a nice bone in his body!"

Prentiss and Hotch share a look, and Spencer knows Prentiss is going to pay Martha Coleman another visit. Al Black apparently has the same thought, because he grins.

"Hey, if you're going to see Martha, be sure to return her Tupperware."

"And let her know how much we enjoyed the pie, in the hopes that she'll supply more?" Prentiss asks drily, making Al Black chuckle.

"You'll never know unless you try!"

Hotch clears his throat, indicating that pie-time is over.

"Morgan, Prentiss, I want you in on the interviews with the other victims' relations. Also find out if something was taken from them. If we know what the items are, it will make it easier to find the link. Rossi, we need to find Marcus Smith. You're on that. Reid, confer with Garcia and find out if any businesses in the area have reported thefts that match with the victims' deaths. JJ, you're on the press?" No-one misses the question in the statement, and JJ nods, her expression tight.

"Of course, sir, it's my job." She sounds affronted, and Hotch looks at her for a moment before he nods.

"Alright. Let me know if anything happens. I'm sure you can ask Greene for assistance if you need it."

At his questioning look, both the Chief and Al Black nod emphatically. Hotch looks even more serious than usual as he says:

"I'm going to call the lab and find out what's going on. They must be able to give an explanation."

The finality of his statement is left hanging, undeterred.

* * *

The rest of the day is a blur in Spencer's mind. By the time the team leaves for the night, none of the victims' relations have had anything useful to say, and Garcia hasn't located a business that has reported thefts that match the victim deaths. Hotch is in a foul mood after conferring first with the lab, getting confirmation from two different managers, and then with Strauss, who yelled at him over the phone for twenty minutes.

Spencer feels numb after a day of actively blocking his emotions, using all his energy to merely tolerate his surroundings without breaking. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be insane. And he wonders what he can do to make it go away.

He stares at the door to his hotel room. He doesn't know if Hotch is inside yet. Doesn't know if he wishes he is or wishes he isn't. Somehow, his hands feel so heavy that he can't bring himself to slide the keycard through the lock.

And suddenly, he finds himself in front of room 312. Before he can rationalize, argue with himself, he sees his own hand knocking insistently at the door.

"Reid?"

Rossi is looking at him in surprise. Spencer doesn't know whether to laugh or cry as the older agent immediately molds himself into displaying a carefully controlled body language, open and unthreatening expression, the kind one would use if faced with a psychopathic, deranged killer. Spencer muses, a tad bitterly, that he probably merits that treatment after his behavior today. He clears his throat.

"Rossi. Is Morgan here?"

He's proud to note that his voice is clear, even, and he forces himself to relax his shoulders, his hands. Rossi's eyes flicker briefly in approval, and Morgan appears behind him.

"Reid?"

He looks equal parts wary and relieved, and Spencer attempts a smile. From the expression on the faces in front of him, it doesn't come out well.

"I—can I speak with you?" he asks Morgan, dismissing every attempt to smile or even look relaxed. "Alone?" he adds, shooting Rossi what he hopes is a look of apology.

"Of course," Morgan replies quickly, and looks like he wants to step back in the room, but hesitates. "Here? Or…?"

Spencer doesn't know if Morgan is worried about being alone with him, if he fears Spencer will freak out. So he forces himself to relax even more as he nods.

"If you don't mind."

Morgan nods and steps back, and Rossi grabs his jacket, nods at both of them – Spencer sees them exchanging a silently communicating look – and then leaves, shutting the door with a soft click. Spencer has a suspicion Rossi's evening is going to involve Hotch and a lot of alcohol.

"Sit down?"

Morgan nods towards the small coffee table, and Spencer idly wonders why this room has two chairs when his own only has one. He sits stiffly in one chair, and Morgan takes the other, looking expectantly at him.

Spencer suddenly doesn't know what to say, what he's hoping to get from Morgan. He can feel his hands going cold, clammy with sweat, and his throat is dry.

"Reid, just tell me what's wrong. You know I won't judge you. Ever."

Morgan's voice is low, comforting, reassuring, and much to his mortification, Spencer feels all the emotion he's carefully mashed into a small, hard knot exploding, and this time it doesn't stay in his chest but rushes out in a burst of tears. He covers his face with his hands, unable to look at Morgan, unable to do anything but cry in great, heaving sobs.

He can hear Morgan speaking, trying to calm him down, can feel a big hand awkwardly patting his shoulder, and the touch makes him gulp down lungfuls of air, makes him control his breathing, makes him wary that Morgan will try to hug him in an attempt of comfort. He doesn't want the touch, can't handle the thought of it, the thought of it making him long for it to be someone else than Morgan comforting him.

He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, meets Morgan's sympathetic, worried eyes and feels guilty.

"I'm sorry." His voice is dry, croaky, and he wonders how many times he's said those words in the last few weeks. He watches Morgan stand up and nods his thanks as the other man returns with a handful of tissues.

"What happened this morning? Or last night? It can't just have been a nightmare." Morgan's voice is gently inquiring, and Spencer takes a minute to blow his nose, dry his eyes, and then his hands idly plucks invisible dust off his sweater as he replies.

"No, not just a nightmare. Morgan, I—do you know what happened? With Harris, I mean?"

He looks up, looks at Morgan's face growing hard.

"Yes, I know. And it's perfectly normal to react, even after weeks or months—"

Spencer cuts him off.

"No, I don't just mean the… that he… raped me." He feels his cheeks flushing, hating how he stumbles over the word, how it feels in his mouth. "I mean, the details."

Morgan slowly shakes his head.

"No. I mean, Hotch didn't tell me, if that's what you worry about. He wouldn't betray your trust like that." Morgan sounds slightly affronted, and Spencer swallows around the lump in his throat.

"No, of course not. I just didn't know how much you figured out, from the extent of my injuries compared to his usual… preferences in victims."

"All his other victims were tortured, butchered, and ended up dead," Morgan states flatly, and Spencer inhales sharply, "and I assume that makes you feel guilty for having a reaction, since, after all, you should be grateful to just be alive and relatively unharmed."

Spencer can't speak for a minute. He doesn't know what so say – doesn't want to admit that Morgan has hit the nail on the head. Finally, he regains control of his voice.

"You're right," he whispers, staring down at his hands. "I feel guilty. What he did to me… it was so tame compared to the others." He can feel his body going numb with shock, betrayed by the careless dismissal of its trauma. He looks up, meets Morgan's grim expression, his look of remorse. "I guess I'd just like to know that… it gets better. Hear from someone who knows it that I will be able to move on, eventually."

Morgan's expression softens, and he leans back in his chair, some of the tension leaving his body.

"Of course it will. Get better. And you will move on. I know you know it intellectually, Spencer. And I know it's so difficult to believe it in your heart. But – you gotta trust me, man."

Spencer feels himself nodding, but his heart isn't fully in it. He is desperate to confess something else, can feel it bubbling inside him, ready to be spilled. And as he meets Morgan's reassuring gaze, he can't keep it inside anymore.

"He raped his own son," he blurts, unable to stop the stream of words even as Morgan opens his mouth as if to reply. "He—Harris I mean. When he was just a kid. I think I reminded him of it. And he was so intent on destroying me, taking any semblance of innocence away from me. He—he kept telling me to scream, to let it out, wanted to see and feel and hear my pain. And I didn't let him have that. So he… got agitated. But still, it could have been so much worse, so much. And I feel so guilty for not somehow being… relieved that is wasn't worse. Because, to me, it was so terrible. I was so scared. It's something I never even considered fearing, and I'm so afraid it will destroy me."

He trails off, cannot stand to watch Morgan's expression growing more horrified by the second.

"That son of a bitch," the other agent says in a low, hard voice. "Dammit, Spencer. I wish it hadn't happened to you. Damn! It's bad enough in itself, but when it's the first experience… it really puts a dampener on wanting to explore that side of yourself for a long while." Morgan clenches his teeth, his eyes so anguished and his expression so bitter than Spencer can't bring himself to let Morgan make that assumption about him.

"I wasn't a virgin," he says quietly, not meeting Morgan's eyes.

"Oh." Spencer can tell Morgan is surprised. "I'm sorry, I just assumed…"

"I know. And you were right, really. It happened very shortly before Harris."

Spencer thinks Morgan will never know how literal that statement is. He can also tell Morgan is curious, from the way the other man shifts in his chair, and he feels grateful when Morgan, to his credit, doesn't ask.

"I think it made a difference – that it wasn't my very first time, I mean," he says, and Morgan nods empathically.

"Morgan…" Spencer trails off, unsure of how to phrase the core of his inner turmoil. "How did you… I mean—god, I know it's such a personal question." He wrings his hands together, looking at Morgan in what he hopes is an apologetic manner. Morgan smiles ever so slightly and waves a dismissive hand.

"Just ask, Reid. Really."

Spencer takes a deep breath, and then blurts out his question.

"How did you have sex, afterwards, I mean, without feeling… d-dirty." He stutters on the last word, cheeks burning with the intimacy of the question. Morgan is looking at him with slightly narrowed eyes, but Spencer doesn't think he's angry.

"I don't know _how_ I did it. I guess I just… realized it wasn't my fault what he did to me. And when I met a girl and fell in love, it just felt so natural. And it was so very different, making love to a woman, than what he did to me. You'll realize it, I'm sure, when more time has passed and you have had the chance to reflect on your own experiences, to make your own comparison."

Spencer squirms, uncomfortably, can't help himself. He senses Morgan looking closely at him.

"I don't know," he hears himself mumbling. "It wasn't really… it was kind of awkward."

Morgan chuckles indulgently, apparently assigning his uncomfortable posture to the memory of a normal, fumbling first time. Spencer frowns and looks at the other agent with a determined expression, needing to get everything off his chest.

"I think I'm a little confused," he says slowly, and Morgan leans forward, attentive. "I know I ought to need a lot more time to get used to the idea of… being close to someone else. But I… met someone. And I don't know, I just feel so—so _cheap_, wanting this so soon after…" He hears his own voice rising to a semblance of hysteria, and cuts himself off. Morgan's expression is sympathetic.

"Hey, man, I think it's great. It means you're moving on – you know there's no time limit on these things, Reid. It's so individual. And if she's a decent girl, she'll understand. You know, when I…"

"It's not a girl," Spencer cuts him off, the words coming out in a rush. Morgan's face goes blank with surprise, and then it transforms into something akin to horror, disgust. Spencer feels the disappointment and embarrassment hit his stomach like a red-hot iron, and he's about to seriously consider bolting for the door when Morgan speaks.

"Oh god, Reid, please tell me it's not Greene!" He stares at Spencer, eyes pleading, and Spencer feels himself deflating, realizing Morgan's horror is aimed at himself.

"No, it's not Greene," he sighs, and he almost wants to laugh at the fleeting expression of massive guilt on Morgan's face, thinking he punched the object of Spencer's affection in an attempt to save him. "It's… someone else." He can't bring himself to say the name. Can't even begin to consider the chain reaction it would start. "I feel really attracted to him, and he's…" He feels tears pressing behind his eyes again, thinking of the expression on Hotch's face this morning when Spencer yelled at him to leave him alone, that he hurt him. "I'm just hurting him, being so—so damaged. And I don't deserve someone like…"

"Bullshit!" Morgan exclaims, making Spencer jump when his fist bangs heavily on the table. "Sorry. But don't do that to yourself, Spencer. Don't. If this guy's worth anything, he will wait for you. And he will consider himself lucky. And if he pressures you into anything, I'll have a chat with him." Morgan looks furious, and Spencer spends a moment entertaining the thought of Morgan having a 'brotherly' talk with Hotch.

"He hasn't pressured me," he says softly, cutting Morgan's rant short. "It's—it's more of the opposite, really. I've been pushing him, and…" _begging for it, like a slut, a filthy whore, a bitch in heat_, "…and it feels so wonderful. To be with him, I mean. But I'm… it's almost too much. Maybe I'm not ready for it, yet."

Spencer feels as if a heavy weight falls from his shoulders with the soft confession, his chest suddenly not so tight, his heart not so heavy. Morgan is nodding, and he slowly reaches out a hand and places it gently on Spencer's arm, squeezing.

"You've been trying to overcompensate, to prove to yourself that you weren't damaged by Harris. And now you don't know what to do with all that emotion."

"Yes," Spencer breathes, and his pulse slows down to a steady, comforting beat, his whole body relaxing as Morgan manages to sum up his chaotic, inner turmoil with two short sentences.

"I don't understand how I can want… how I can be attracted to another man, after what Harris…" His voice is low as he confesses the words. Morgan's hand is warm and comforting on his arm, and he is happy that his skin doesn't crawl at the contact.

"Look, I've never been attracted to a guy, so can't help you there," Morgan says, grimacing almost apologetically. "But think about it. If a woman is raped, by a man, do you think she'll never feel attracted to another man again, that she'll never want to have sex with another man, even if she falls in love?"

Spencer frowns, mulling over the words in his head before he replies.

"I guess I didn't think about it like that," he admits, shrugging. "I just… never gave serious thought to being in a relationship with anyone. It's not easy for me to… feel close to others. Emotionally. And I can't just… find someone random. I've been attracted to girls," and he can hear his own tone being almost defensive. Morgan smiles quickly.

"Lots of people are attracted to both genders. Why am I telling you this, Mr. Statistics?"

Spencer snorts out something that resembles a laugh.

"It's one thing to read about it. Quite another to…"

"…know it, yeah," Morgan smiles.

"I'm just so surprised at my own reaction when he touches me. It makes me feel… powerless. Like I would do anything for him. Last n—the last time I saw him, we…" His face is burning, as he briefly ponders whether to share this final, intimate piece of information, but Morgan nods encouragingly, and Spencer takes a deep breath.

"We were… together. And I felt so—so needy. And I practically begged him to… it made me feel so dirty. And I dreamed about it last night, about him, saying all the things Harris said to me." He leaves out the part about the werewolf, thinking Morgan already looks disheveled enough. The other agent clears his throat, the hand on Spencer's arm rubbing soothing, small circles.

"Reid, man, don't believe a word Harris said to you. It's not dirty or filthy to feel like you do. It's called being horny." He smirks, and Spencer feels himself blushing. "And take it from me, when I'm with a woman and she's all hot and bothered like that, it makes me feel like a damn fine man. You understand?"

Spencer is silent for a moment. He carefully allows himself to think back, remembers writhing beneath Hotch, leaving welts as his nails dug frantically into the other man's skin, how he kept moaning yes and please when Hotch pounded him and he only barely managed to keep himself together.

And he remembers the expression on Hotch's face, the concern and desire in his eyes, as he slowly took Spencer, remembers the strong, possessive touches, the way Hotch had to bury his face in Spencer's neck when he climaxed – not to hide contempt in his eyes, but to quell the scream of pleasure. And he remembers Hotch gripping his hips tightly, remembers seeing the bruises in the mirror – and suddenly he doesn't think of them as a reminder of something awful, someone holding him against his will, but rather as proof of someone holding him tightly, not wanting to let him go.

He remembers his own hand on Hotch's needy arousal, stroking it, pumping it, and the way Hotch looked him in the eyes, his own gaze open, raw, vulnerable, as Spencer pushed him over the edge. He remembers his name on Hotch's lips, remembers Hotch's reaction to Spencer's mouth on him, remembers how it made him feel so strong, so accomplished, so very powerful. And he suddenly understands what Morgan is trying to tell him.

"I'm not quite sure how to make things right from here," Spencer admits, slumping his shoulders in defeat.

"Why don't you talk to him? Call him tonight?" Morgan pats his arm, and Spencer nods, hesitantly.

"I—I'm not sure he wants to talk to me. I was really awful to him this morning… on the phone," he adds, a tad too quickly, and hopes Morgan doesn't notice. "I wanted to push him away before—before he decided that I'm not worth the effort," he says, swallowing around a sudden lump in his throat. Morgan's hand on his arm tightens its hold.

"Come on, man, if he thinks that, he's crazy." He looks at Spencer with an earnest expression, and Spencer can't help but smile.

"Don't forget I'm taken, Morgan. And he can kick your ass any day."

Morgan looks surprised for a moment, then laughs, his hand lightly batting at Spencer's arm.

"Garcia would kill me, anyway. And _she_ could probably kick _your_ guy's ass, any day!"

"True."

They smile at each other, and there's a slightly awkward pause as Spencer doesn't know how to tell Morgan how much he appreciates their talk. How it's made him feel sane again. In the end, he shyly touches Morgan's hand.

"Thank you. Really. I've felt a little insane all day."

Morgan looks worried, his eyes boring into Spencer's.

"Will you be okay? Calling him, I mean? If you want to stay here – I'll put on my headphones…"

"No, no," Spencer says hurriedly. "I'll be fine. Really. Or I'll know where to find you."

Morgan nods, his expression solemn.

"Yes, and don't you forget it, genius boy."

They stand, and Spencer wrings his brain for something to say, something light that will lift them out of the serious, heavy mood.

"I hope Rossi doesn't snore too much tonight. He's always worst when he's had something to drink."

Morgan snorts, and rolls his eyes.

"As long as he doesn't start talking about armadillo sex _again_. That stuff is creeping me out!"

Spencer can't help but laugh along with Morgan. And then, after a short walk, he finds himself in front of his own hotel room. He has to take several deep breaths, the relief from turmoil and the determined courage that overcame him in Morgan's presence suddenly gone.

Feeling hard and soft, tough and vulnerable, determined and hesitant, worried and elated, he slowly slides the keycard through the lock and opens the door.


	7. Rollercoaster

Eye of the Hurricane

**Summary**: As the BAU team deals with a killer who doesn't seem quite human, Reid must deal with the aftermath of being raped, and sort out his relationship with Hotch. Sequel to one-shot "Shelter from Storm".

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Criminal Minds, nor do I make money from writing about it.

Un-beta'ed – any mistakes are my own.

**Warnings**: References to non-con Reid/OC. Rated M for the slashy stuff. Supernatural plot-elements.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Rollercoaster**

Aaron feels like banging his head against the wall. Hard. And repeatedly.

Throughout the day, through a rapidly growing pile of victims, JJ's growing anxiety, Morgan's bad temper, Rossi's knowing looks, the Carmine Falls officers' increasing frustration and his own feeling of helplessness – throughout all that, it has only taken a fraction of a second for his mind to slip and push the image of Reid's face from this morning to the forefront. He only has to close his eyes to see the empty, broken expression, the terror in those expressive eyes.

Aaron feels sick.

He is in the hotel room, but he suspects Reid will not arrive anytime soon. He will eventually, though, with Aaron's threat of being sent home in disgrace hanging over his head.

Aaron groans and puts his head in his hands. For a few minutes he sits there, doing his best to not even think the thought of whether it would be best to recommend a transfer for Reid or himself.

Suddenly there's a knock at the door, and Aaron jumps slightly. His stomach twists into knots before he can tell himself sternly that Reid wouldn't knock, that he would just use his key.

"Aaron? It's me."

Rossi.

"And Jim."

Aaron frowns, puzzled. He walks to the door and flings it open, and Rossi smiles his quirky, little smile and holds out a bottle with golden liquid.

"The best that ever came out of Kentucky."

Aaron snorts a laugh, in spite of himself, and nods at the bottle of Jim Beam.

"I thought we had a policy about not drinking while on a case?"

Rossi regards him levelly for a moment, his smile gone.

"I thought we had policies about many things, Aaron."

"Touché." Aaron sighs, rubs his hand over his eyes. "But if you're just here to be annoying, you might as well leave the bottle and take charge tomorrow when I'm out cold."

Rossi is smiling again and shakes the bottle, making the whiskey lurch with a clucking sound.

"I just want to talk. You look like you need it more than the drink. And I'll endeavor not to be annoying."

Aaron stands back and lets him in, nods towards the lone chair.

"Have a seat, then."

They manage to locate two glasses, though Rossi bemoans the absence of real tumblers and eyes the glass from the bathroom sink with open distaste. The older profiler pours whiskey into both glasses, and they toast silently. Aaron nips at his, welcoming the burn that spreads out in his chest.

"So, Aaron. What happened with Reid? Last night you wrote he was fine. And this morning he was… not." Rossi's look is neutral, enquiring without being probing, and he casually swirls the golden liquid around in his glass.

Aaron can't really find the words to sum up what exactly happened. To buy time, he downs the contents of his glass, swallowing a few times to clear the slight bile rising in his throat. Rossi merely raises an eyebrow before downing his own drink as well, and Aaron nods as the other man holds out the bottle with a questioning look. The glasses are full again, and Aaron can't sort through his thoughts, can't for the life of him compartmentalize, so he stares at his own glass, transfixed on the light breaking the amber surface.

"I feel like I raped him."

His voice sounds hollow to his own ears. Hollow and dead. Not unlike Reid's face earlier.

Rossi clears his throat softly, and waits until Aaron is looking at him before speaking.

"Aaron, we talked about this before. Harris raped him. What happened between you and Reid was something that happened between two consenting adults – even if you were under a great deal of pressu…"

"I don't mean back then, with Harris. I mean last night."

Aaron carefully looks away from Rossi, doesn't want to see the disapproval in the senior agent's face.

"Last night?"

Rossi's voice does indeed have an undertone of disapproval, and suddenly Aaron finds himself feeling annoyed, defensive.

"Yes, last night! You sent me here yourself, remember? You said he needed me."

"I didn't mean it in quite so literal terms."

Rossi's voice is wry, matter-of-factly, but the disapproval has disappeared, and Aaron relaxes slightly. He sighs, runs a hand through his hair, then slams it softly down on the bed in frustration.

"Damn it, Dave! I shouldn't have let myself be convinced that he was alright, that he was ready for this. I just… really wanted it. And I wanted to believe that he did, too."

Aaron feels his body tensing after the confession, as if waiting for rebuke. He wonders if he would feel just a tad better if Rossi actually did punch him in the face. Rossi doesn't, however, merely shrugs and tilts his head slightly.

"Wouldn't be the first time in history a man let something other than his intellect rule him, Aaron – though maybe the first time for you," he adds pointedly, and holds up a hand to stall Aaron's protest. "You know Reid. He can outsmart any shrink. Can even outsmart a profiler –yes, even one as clever and experienced as you. And I think, in some ways, he has managed to outsmart himself on this matter. He's still in denial. You know that, Aaron."

"Yes, and that's why I should have stopped it and sent him home after the first time!"

Aaron regrets the words immediately, as Rossi looks taken aback.

"The first time? You mean, last night wasn't the only time you… we've only been here three days, Aaron!" Despite the admonishment in the words, there's a silent laughter in Rossi's eyes, and – Aaron thinks – a hint of respect.

"Oh, stuff it, Dave. You know what happens once you get started. I don't suppose you've forgotten about Seattle and Samantha Michaels?"

Rossi chuckles and doesn't even have the modesty to look embarrassed.

"I'll never forget that. Or the look on your face when you walked in on us…"

"Yes, thank you! That's enough reminiscing." Aaron shudders demonstratively. He's never been able to look at a copier ever since, without recalling the image of Rossi's naked ass.

"Anyway." Aaron clears his throat, downs half of his glass. "I feel like such an idiot. I talked to Reid yesterday, and he seemed fine. Not perfect, but he was rationalizing and coping with it, and then we… got carried away. And it was… he didn't act like a scared victim, Dave. He was so—so passionate, so full of life. And this morning he was just… I didn't even see that much terror in his eyes when Harris was raping him."

Aaron fists the sheet between his fingers, knuckles turning white. He carefully sets down his glass, afraid he'll shatter it any moment. Rossi looks at him, sympathy and understanding clear in his expression.

"Aaron, you know that his reaction has nothing to do with you. Perhaps you triggered it, yes – but if you hadn't, he might just have been in denial for several more weeks, heck, months! Of course it's unfortunate that it happened on a case. Especially this one. Seems everyone's a bit frazzled. But you can't blame yourself, Aaron. And I'm sure Reid doesn't blame you either."

"He said I hurt him." Aaron swallows around the sudden lump in his throat. "This morning. And… after the episode with JJ, he told me he didn't mean it. But only because I threatened to pull him off the case and send him home. I told him we needed to talk tonight, or I'd send him home tomorrow morning."

Rossi is nodding calmly.

"And you know that's the right thing to do, Aaron. If he for whatever reason can't do his job, it's your job, as his superior, to dismiss him."

Aaron grimaces, downs the rest of his drink. He shakes his head when Rossi reaches for the bottle.

"I think that's enough. And I feel like a grade A jerk for going to bed with him one moment and threatening to send him on extended leave the next."

Rossi smiles slightly.

"And _that_ is why they don't encourage fraternization, Aaron!" He smiles even more at the sour look Aaron shoots him, and holds up a defensive hand.

"I was never the superior officer in any of _my_ relationships!"

Aaron feels slightly startled at the words; doesn't know if he can label what he has with Reid 'a relationship', doesn't know exactly _how_ to label it.

"But," Rossi continues, breaking Aaron out of his reverie, "you need to work on distinguishing between when you are Reid's superior and when you are his… whatever you are."

"I don't know how to do that. Hell, I don't even know who or what I am to him when I'm not his superior." Aaron shakes his head, rubs his eyes, feels tired. Most of all with himself.

Rossi looks calmly at him.

"Then maybe you should start by figuring out what you want to be, Aaron."

Aaron shakes his head, feels the defeat weighing down at him.

"It doesn't matter what I want, Dave. It can't ever be anything… more."

"Why not?"

Aaron frowns, looks at Rossi's earnest expression.

"You know why not. There are rules. And I'd never compromise our team like that."

Rossi lights up in that small, annoyingly smug smile.

"Ah, but rules and other people's feelings and actions are just outside factors, Aaron. They are dispensable. Interchangeable. What do you _want_?"

Aaron doesn't know what to say, doesn't even want to consider the possibilities. Rossi pats his knee.

"You don't have to answer to _me_. Think it over. And prioritize. But while we're on this case, what are you going to do about Reid? As his superior agent?"

"I honestly don't know. It depends on how our talk goes." Aaron can feel his jaw tightening, knows his face is showing the strain. And the flicker of sympathy on Rossi's face only enhances the feeling that he's lost it, lost control. And Aaron hates losing control.

Rossi pats his knee again, and stands up from the chair, gathering up the bottle of Jim Beam. He opens his mouth to say something, when there's suddenly a sound that makes Aaron's heart lurch – the small beep of the keycard being activated in the door.

He and Rossi both stare silently towards the small hallway, and when Reid steps into the room he freezes, looking uncertainly between them.

Aaron is relieved beyond measure to see the terror gone from the younger agent's eyes.

"Oh," Reid says, taking an awkward step back. "If you're talking, I can…"

"No!" Aaron and Rossi speak at the same time, and Reid looks slightly wary as Aaron jumps up and Rossi hastily moves towards the door.

"We were done – right, Aaron? Night, you two."

Aaron nods absentmindedly after Rossi, and he hears the door closing softly behind the older agent.

Reid is still frozen, and for a long second they simply stare at each other – Aaron thinks Reid looks as apprehensive as he himself feels. He drinks in the sight of the eyes, uncertain but not empty, and the stance, tense but not coiled, not panicked.

Aaron tries to formulate a sentence that will put things right between them, but he doesn't know where to start, doesn't know how to apologize, scold, reassure, enquire, express concern, express his confusing feelings all at once. Reid saves him by taking a deep breath and blurting out:

"I've been overcompensating. Trying to convince myself I was really all right. But I'm not. And I don't think I was ready for… everything we've done. Not physically, but emotionally. I really wanted to be. But it was so stupid of me. So… preposterous. I don't even know how a normal relationship—or whatever it is—works, so how could I expect to cope with all this, after… Harris. I just wanted to, for once, let my feelings guide me. And look where that's gotten us."

Reid's been speaking fast, clipped, but now he pauses to grimace a smile, and Aaron draws a breath.

"Reid, listen…"

"No, let me finish." Reid shoots him an apologetic look for interrupting, and continues speaking when Aaron simply nods.

"I freaked out this morning. I dreamed of… of you and Harris, and he—you were saying all the things he said to me, and then you turned into the werewolf and ripped my throat out. And that wasn't the worst of it." Reid's voice is wry, ironic, but Aaron feels his heart clenching uncomfortably at the thought of Reid dreaming of him speaking Harris' cruel words. Reid keeps speaking, faster and faster as if he needs to get it all out before he regrets.

"The worst was that I woke up, and I felt so… _cheap_. For wanting you, and so much that I begged for it. I don't—didn't understand how I could want someone touching me so soon after Harris. And certainly not another man. I've never considered myself… I mean, I never really gave much thought to it. But I spoke with Morgan, and he helped me clear up some things. I don't think it's wrong of me to want that kind of… intimacy. But it should wait a while longer, until I figure out my emotions, and learn how to handle them. So I _will_ have weekly sessions with Dr. Graines when we return. And I don't expect _anything_ from you."

Reid's voice turns frantic now, and his eyes are slightly desperate as they fix on Aaron's face.

"I just… really want to keep my job. But if you don't think it will work, I will ask for a transfer, or find something else. I don't want _you_ to leave the team, Hotch, please don't even consider it!"

Aaron takes a step forward, and Reid abruptly cuts off his stream of words, looking anxious.

"I'm not going to leave the team. And neither are you, Reid." Aaron makes sure both his look and voice are firm, and Reid relaxes visibly.

"But," and Aaron modulates his voice, turns it stern, and Reid is tense again, "it will take a lot of work from both of us, if we are going to maintain a professional and unaffected working relationship. Nothing personal must influence it, both for our own sakes, but certainly also the rest of the team. What happened this morning, both in this room and at the station, should never happen again. Do you understand?"

Reid is nodding, his eyes downcast, and Aaron feels annoyingly much like a father scolding an errant teenager. He clears his throat, and his voice is softer as he continues.

"Spencer, I wish you'd talked to me this morning. I'm sorry I threatened to send you home, but I was furious at the thought that I'd hurt you. And I felt—feel so guilty for pushing you beyond your limits. I ought to know you're clever enough to convince me, and yourself, that you're fine even if you're not. And while I can't bring myself to say that I regret our… actions, I do regret the timing. And I do meant what I said the other night, about taking it slowly. I think we should start from the beginning, work out what you're comfortable with, and then…"

"What?" Reid interrupts him, shocked eyes meeting his own. Aaron frowns at the incredulous expression on Reid's face, and for a second doubt gnaws at him, making him worry he misjudged the situation, Reid's feelings. But then Reid speaks, his voice uncertain.

"Do you mean you want to… continue this—whatever this is? With us?"

Aaron feels warmth spread in his chest at the both apprehensive and hopeful look on Reid's face, and he nods solemnly.

"Yes, I do. And I want to work very hard to be able to have a very strictly professional _and_ a very strictly personal relationship with you. But if it turns out to be impossible… I _will_ leave the team, Spencer."

It's probably as close to a mushy exclamation of love as Aaron will get right now, and based on Reid's awed, slightly shocked expression, he knows it too.

"What would you do, then?" the boy blurts out, and Aaron can't help but smile at the earnest expression in the midst of all the emotional turmoil. He thinks for a moment, then shrugs.

"Maybe I'd go back to being a lawyer. And never worry about werewolves again."

"That sounds… really boring," Reid manages to say, his voice shaky, and Aaron isn't sure whether it's from suppressing laughter or tears.

They look at each other again, and Aaron sees the relief, the almost magnetic joy shining in Reid's eyes. Aaron isn't sure who moves first, or if they both move at the same time, but suddenly they've reached each other in the middle of the floor and Aaron twines his arms around Reid, holds the slender body close to him, and he feels arms embracing him just as tightly, feels Reid's chest heaving and feels the sobs being muffled against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry." Reid's voice is strained, subdued against Aaron's neck. "I promised myself I wouldn't cry. Again." His tone is exasperated, and Aaron smiles slightly, tightens his arms even more, turns his head to press his face against the soft hair.

He knows he's already lost beyond reason.

"It's okay, Spencer," he mutters, and they cling to each other for several minutes, not moving, not speaking, only taking comfort from each other.

Aaron withdraws gently as he feels the tremor going through Reid's body, and he looks closely at the other agent, who, while he no longer looks anguished, does look like he hasn't had enough sleep and food for a few days.

"Let's sit down," he suggests, and Reid nods wearily, practically collapses on Aaron's bed and slides back to rest against the wall. Aaron goes to the bathroom for a moment and returns with a wad of tissues, and Reid's smile is grateful as he takes them. The younger agent wipes his eyes, blows his nose, then sighs and closes his eyes for a moment.

Aaron sits down on the bed as well, close to Reid without quite touching, and he feels a frisson of delight when Reid without hesitation tilts his body to rest against Aaron's side, his head on Aaron's shoulder. Aaron slides his arm around Reid's back, pulling him closer, his hand stroking softly up and down Reid's arm, occasionally brushing his shoulder and the hair falling over his chin.

"I…" Reid's voice is barely audible, and he clears his throat before continuing, his voice shy:

"I like it when you touch me."

"Mm." Aaron doesn't feel the need to answer, merely makes a small, agreeable sound, and turns his head to press a soft kiss to Reid's forehead. He feels Reid's hand on his, and he squeezes it slightly, stroking his thumb over the knuckles, tracing a particularly prominent vein running across the back of Reid's hand.

"What are we going to from here?" Reid asks suddenly, and Aaron doesn't want to answer, doesn't want to leave this small bubble of contentment—but he knows the question must be answered inevitably.

"I'm not sure," he admits, and feels Reid tilt his head. He tilts his own slightly down, meets the determined hazel eyes as Reid speaks.

"I can do my job. You don't have to send me back. And I don't expect any special treatment from you because… of all this. I know I'm capable. And I swear I won't freak out like that again. If I feel overwhelmed, I _will_ talk to you, or Morgan. I know you don't have to trust me, after I said the same thing before we left and, well, didn't exactly follow through…"

"I trust you," Aaron interrupts, squeezing the hand in his. "And I understand why you reacted like this. Part of the blame is mine. No, it is," he says firmly when he senses Reid is about to protest. "I should not have let you back into the field so quickly. But you did manage to convince me, and I _wanted_ you on the case – because you're such an integral part of the team. We both made an error of judgment, and it had consequences. But I believe we can move on now."

"I believe so too," Reid agrees, clutching his hand tightly.

"So," Aaron continues, feeling a strange wave of calmness washing over him, "let's do that. Move on. We'll solve this case, find the unsub. And we will work out everything else along the way."

"Can it really be this easy?" Reid's voice is both wry and amused, and Aaron feels weightless as he laughs.

"I guess we all deserve a break at some point," he replies, and Reid lights up in a grin. Aaron feels his gaze being drawn to the sensuous mouth, and he quickly dismisses the thought, looks away. So he is surprised to feel Reid's hand on his jaw, adding gentle pressure.

"Spencer," he begins, but the boy cuts him off by placing two fingers across his lips.

"Aaron. Shut up and kiss me."

Aaron looks at the gleam of mischief and shy encouragement in Reid's eyes. And then does as he is told.

It is soft and sweet, and Aaron thinks he could spend hours like this, with Reid, their lips sliding softly over each other, stealing each others' breaths, hearts beating in perfect sync. He lets one hand tangle itself in Reid's hair, the other link through Reid's fingers, and Reid sighs as Aaron's tongue lightly brushes across his lower lip.

Aaron doesn't know if minutes or hours have passed when he has to push Reid gently away, when his body is about to betray his intentions and beg for more than the light sweetness of the kiss.

Reid looks slightly disappointed, but still smiles at Aaron, his eyes huge and face flushed.

"Sorry."

"Will you stop apologizing?" Aaron knows he sounds slightly exasperated, and Reid looks down, though Aaron can see the smile playing around his lips. He is about to think of a clever remark, when the phone in his pocket suddenly rings.

"It's Morgan," he announces, and Reid looks suddenly apprehensive. Aaron suspects they both think the same thought: Is there yet another body?

"Morgan, what's up?" Aaron doesn't bother with pleasantries, keeping his voice all business.

"Hotch. It's not about the case. It's about Reid."

Aaron shoots Reid a quick look. The speaker phone isn't on, but Reid is close enough to hear what Morgan says. The younger agent shrugs slightly as if to say he doesn't know what Morgan wants.

"What about him?" Aaron asks, his voice perhaps a bit too terse.

"I'm worried about him, Hotch. We just had a talk, and I'm not sure I should have let him leave like that. He was going to… attend some personal business. But not very pleasant." Morgan's voice is concerned, genuine, and Aaron feels a twinge of guilt for being annoyed with Morgan for interrupting, feels his respect for his fellow agent go up another notch.

"You don't have to worry, Morgan. He's here with me, and I know what it's all about."

"Oh." Aaron thinks Morgan is surprised, though he hides it well. "Well, guess I can take Rossi up on his offer for a drink after all, then. I… are you sure he's alright, Hotch? I don't know what he's told you, but… I'm worried about the kid. It's a lot for someone to handle."

Aaron looks at Reid, who is looking contemplative, his shoulders hunched and hands folded in his lap.

"I know, Morgan. But I'm taking care of it, alright?" Aaron presses the authority in his voice, and there's only a slight hesitation before Morgan backs down.

"Okay. I'm glad he's confided in you, Hotch. See you in the morning. Night."

"Night."

Aaron snaps the phone shut. Neither of them speaks for a moment. Aaron mulls over Morgan's words. He hates having to keep this pretense for them all.

"We have to tell them," Reid says solemnly, and Aaron nods, feels both anxiety and relief sweep through him at the thought.

"They're all profilers," Reid continues, as if he's trying to convince himself. "Rossi already knows, and Morgan will catch on soon enough, after what I told him. I really don't think he suspects I was talking about you, but I'm afraid it will be clear to him when…"

"… when he sees us together after tonight," Aaron finishes with a weary sigh. "You're right. I'm just afraid it will… complicate matters. We all work so well together. Even if you and I manage to act professional all the time, it's hard for me to ask them to do the same, when at the same time I'm asking them to break protocol."

He feels Reid nodding, and the younger agent's voice is soft as he says:

"I think they'll understand. They're… I mean, I think we all wish the best for each other."

"And you really think I can be considered 'the best' for you?" Aaron's voice is dry, ironic, but butterflies are beating their way up his chest, and he firmly tells himself to stop reacting like a lovesick teenager. Reid is oblivious to anything but the irony, and he slaps Aaron's hand gently.

"I could do a lot worse. Though… Morgan might want to have a chat with you." Aaron hears the smile in his voice, and knows he's missing out on some kind of joke. He makes a sudden decision.

"Then lets' go have a chat with him. Right now."

"Really?"

Reid is surprised, eyeing Aaron warily.

"You mean… you want to tell him now? All of them?"

Aaron isn't sure that's what he wants, but somehow he knows it's the right thing to do.

"No time like the present, right?"

Reid nods slowly, his hold on Aaron's hand tightening for a moment before letting go.

"I guess not. Let's go, then."

They leave the room and head for the floor below. As they walk down the flight of stairs, Aaron reaches for Reid's hand, keeps hold of it until they reach the door to the third floor hallway. Reid's eyes are shining, and his face looks as raw and vulnerable as Aaron feels. They look at each other for a moment, and then, almost in synchronization, they mold their expressions into more somber, appropriate masks. Aaron doesn't bother concealing his fatigue, though – nor does he bother trying to cage in the lightness in his chest, the fluttering of his heart, even though he knows the others will pick up on it immediately.

They reach room 312, and Aaron knocks rapidly. The door is almost immediately flung open and Morgan looks at him with a worried expression, which quickly turns relieved as he sees Reid.

"Hey," the dark agent begins, and Aaron just registers the fleeting expression of surprise in Morgan's eyes, prepares himself for the questions he knows are about to fall – when a scream suddenly cuts through the hallway, seeming to ricochet off the walls. Aaron, Reid and Morgan simultaneously turn their heads, and watch as JJ stumbles backwards out of her room, hands on her face, scream breaking off abruptly and turning into choking sobs.

"JJ!"

Aaron reaches her first, as she hits the back wall and slides to the floor. He starts to crouch next to her, but she shakes her head wildly, pointing towards the open door. Her chest is heaving, and Aaron suspects she'll go into hyperventilation any minute.

"Reid," he says, and the younger agent nods, sliding down next to JJ.

Aaron hurries through the door and almost collides with Morgan who's stopped dead in his tracks just inside. Aaron follows his gaze and feels his mind going blank.

A body is lying on one of the beds. The torso and face are shredded to pieces. The clothes are dark, shirt white, and the long hair is dark and matted with blood. Aaron's mind explodes, trying to tell him that it can't be…

"Emily!" JJ is standing in the room suddenly, Reid behind her, his hand awkwardly hovering near her back. JJ's eyes are huge, shocked, and she sobs wordlessly as she stares at the body. Aaron exchanges a quick glance with Morgan, sees his dread reflected in the other man's eyes. Before any of them can move, Rossi steps into the room.

"Hey, what's go… oh!" As the senior profiler spots the body, he pulls out his phone. "I'll call the Chief. JJ?" He blinks, as if he only now registers the excessive reaction in the blonde agent. Aaron tries to catch his eyes, subtly shaking his head.

"Dave, we don't know if…"

"It's Emily," JJ sobs, and Rossi's face goes blank. "I called Will from the lobby. She went ahead. Oh my god!" She breaks down in sobs again, no more words following, and Rossi quickly grabs her shoulder.

"JJ, it's not Emily. I just spoke with her. She was in the lobby. She's right behind me." Rossi's voice is calm, reassuring, and Aaron isn't sure he can take any more of these emotional rollercoaster rides.

"Rossi, you're sure?" Morgan asks tersely, but before the other man can reply, Prentiss steps through the doorway, her expression turning confused as she takes in their stances, faces, JJ's shattered appearance.

"What happened? Is that _another_ body?" Her voice is dismayed, her face drawn together in a frown, but it clears out and turns worried as JJ makes a strained sound and throws her arms around the older woman in a tight hug. Prentiss hugs her back, looking in confusion between them all as JJ sobs into her shoulder.

"JJ said you went ahead to the room," Aaron explains, watches Emily's face grow soft, understanding. Then she takes in the body, the dark suit and white shirt – similar to her own outfit – and the longish, dark hair, and she shudders.

"Oh. I can see why you'd jump to that conclusion. Who _is_ that?"

Rossi is holding his phone to his ear, and they all fall silent as his call connects.

"Dex? It's Rossi. Yes, I'm afraid so. Can you tell me what Marcus Smith looks like? Aha? And did the mother know what he was wearing when they… aha? Yes. Yes, it's him. In one of our hotel rooms. Yes. No, we don't know how he got here. Okay, see you."

Rossi snaps the phone shut and nods at the body.

"It's Marcus Smith. He has long, dark hair and was wearing a dark suit yesterday night when he and Jonah Smith left the house. Dex and Al are on their way."

During his talk with the Chief, JJ has collected herself slightly. She pulls away from Prentiss, wipes her eyes on her own sleeve, sniffs.

"I'm sorry. I thought… you went ahead to the room."

Her voice is strained, hoarse from crying, and Emily looks remorseful as she squeezes JJ's arm.

"I wanted to get some coffee. I talked Jerry Coleman into letting me into the restaurant." She holds up the thermo bottle in her hand as proof, and JJ seems mollified, as if she only now realizes the body is, in fact, not Emily.

"Right. I'm sorry," she repeats, and Aaron steps up to her, places a hand on her shoulder.

"JJ, it's alright. Of course you reacted to the thought that it could be Emily. We all would have." His mind helpfully supplies the thought of it being himself going to his room, seeing a body with Reid's clothes, Reid's hair, blood everywhere… he firmly quells that thought.

"JJ," Rossi says, and Aaron has rarely heard the senior profiler speak so gently, "why don't we go back to my room and go through exactly what happened? I'm sure Emily won't mind surrendering the coffee." Prentiss nods quickly and hands him the thermos, and from the look on Rossi's face Aaron suspects the coffee will make a friendly acquaintance with good, old Jim.

Though JJ is not a trained profiler, Aaron knows she must be able to see that she's being manipulated into a session straight out of _The Handbook of Crisis Psychology_ – but she willingly lets Rossi take her by the arm and guide her out of the room.

Aaron stares at Prentiss, Morgan and Reid, and then they all stare at the body.

"Damn," Prentiss mutters, and Aaron thinks she really speaks for them all.

It barely takes five minutes for the Chief and Al Black to arrive. They both look grim as they stride into the room, and Al Black's phone is held firmly to his ear as he speaks.

"Yeah, I'm afraid so, Jones. I know you hate these late night calls. Yeah, same M.O. as the others – this one's been gutted real good," he adds with a grimace of distaste.

The Chief is slowly shaking his head, looking from Aaron to the rest of the team.

"I can't believe this is still happening! Not that I blame you," he adds quickly, frowning. "We'd be even more lost without you here. Jones and Parker on their way?" The question is directed at Al Black who is done talking, and the Deputy nods in confirmation.

"Yup. Not too happy about it."

"No-one is," the Chief grumbles, and Al Black grimaces.

"Hey, does he have something in his hand?" Morgan has been studying the shredded body of Marcus Smith, and Aaron turns to look along with the others as he speaks.

"Look, his hand is fisted – as if he's holding something."

"I think you're right," Prentiss agrees, and she quickly holds out a hand to stall Al Black as he takes a step forward.

"Let's wait for the techies." She smiles to take the sting of admonishment out of her words, and Al Black smiles back sheepishly.

"Sorry. Dunno what I was thinking. I just really want to get a lead in this stinking case."

Prentiss nods sympathetically and pats his arm.

"We all do."

Aaron can feel his own hands itching to see what Marcus Smith is holding on to so tightly, but he knows better than to break the # 1 rule of the crime scene: _Do not contaminate the crime scene_. Especially in this case, where they need every little lead they can possible get.

He notices Morgan looking at Reid with a frown, and follows the look to see Reid looking utterly exhausted, even swaying slightly as he stands upright.

"Look, Hotch, Emily and I can stay and wait for Jones and Parker. We don't all have to stay up. Why don't you and Reid get a good night's sleep, and then we'll catch this son-of-a-bitch in the morning. Deal?"

The Chief nods emphatically in agreement.

"Al and I will stay too. We can all meet at 8 tomorrow, down at the station."

Aaron is too tired to argue with both of them, so he acquiesces and nods at Reid, who looks grateful.

"Deal," he says, and Morgan sends him a quick, inscrutable look. Aaron knows he has only delayed their little chat – but he suspects the timing will be better in the morning, when everyone has had a chance to sleep.

He pauses in front of room 312 and knocks softly. After a moment, Rossi opens the door and nods at them.

"JJ is on the phone with Will. He wants her to come home, but she doesn't want to."

Aaron nods, not really feeling surprised. None of them like the idea of leaving an ongoing case – no matter how difficult it is.

"How is she?" he asks, and Rossi shrugs.

"She's calmed down a bit. She was mostly shocked because she thought it was Emily. And we both wonder why the body was in their room. We'll ask the Coleman kid for a new room, on another floor. And hear if he has any idea how the body could have ended up here."

"Good. Thanks, Dave. We're headed back up to get some sleep." Aaron watches Rossi's eyes flicker to Reid, who's leaning against the wall, eyes tired and unfocused, and the older profiler nods.

"Sounds like a good plan. When are we meeting tomorrow?"

"At 8 at the station. Breakfast at 7?"

Rossi nods again, and Aaron takes a step back.

"Night. Again."

They exchange quick, tired smiles, and then Rossi closes the door and Aaron leads Reid towards the stairs, gently placing a hand on his back.

The door to their room closes softly behind them. Aaron takes one look at Reid, who by now looks exhausted enough to fall asleep standing up, and nods towards the bathroom.

"Why don't you go first?"

Reid nods, barely moving his head, and shuffles to the door. Aaron changes into his sleeping t-shirt and texts Jessica, feeling more than a little amount of remorse for being away from Jack for several days, yet again.

Reid returns, and Aaron quickly goes through his night routines in the bathroom. He keeps telling himself he's not rushing because he wants to speak with Reid before the younger agent falls asleep. And he keeps telling himself he's a lousy liar.

When he returns to the room, he firmly ignores his stomach's haughty somersault at the sight of Reid lying in Aaron's bed, his eyes half-lidded and obviously struggling not to slide shut. Aaron strides across the floor and turns off the light, and the room is left illuminated by the soft light from the hallway.

"Hey," he whispers, sliding into bed next to Reid, "you didn't have to wait up for me. You should get some sleep."

"I wanted to say g'night." Reid's voice is soft and slurred with fatigue, and Aaron smiles a little as he brushes his hand across Reid's cheek.

"Well, goodnight then. Please go to sleep now," he says solemnly, and Reid smiles a tiny smile in return. It feels so natural for Aaron to stretch out one arm so Reid can rest his head on his shoulder, and Reid seems to have no problems adjusting his body along Aaron's so that they are pressed close together, comfortably snug against each other. Reid sighs deeply, contentedly, and he falls asleep within seconds.

Aaron only battles sleep long enough to pull the covers tighter around them, and then he buries his face in now-familiar silky hair and lets sleep overtake him, not able to muster a single troubled thought to shatter the feeling of calm, heavy bliss that seems to have settled into every single cell of his body.

_A/N: Thank you __again for your reviews and encouragement! _

_I want to once again reassure those of you who've asked that even though the story is coming along a bit slowly right now, it __will__ be finished. You know how RL has a nasty way of butting its head into the creative process. _

_So, even though the emotional rollercoaster seems to be on the way to a mellow stretch, the killer is still on the loose – but the team will soon feel it breathing down their necks as they suddenly discover a large an obvious connection between all the victims….. __and how will the team react to Hotch and Reid's big revelation? _

_Stay tuned for the next chapter!_


	8. Revelations, romantic style

Eye of the Hurricane

**Summary**: As the BAU team deals with a killer who doesn't seem quite human, Reid must deal with the aftermath of being raped, and sort out his relationship with Hotch. Sequel to one-shot "Shelter from Storm".

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Criminal Minds, nor do I make money from writing about it.

Un-beta'ed – any mistakes are my own.

**Warnings**: References to non-con Reid/OC. Rated M for the slashy stuff. Supernatural plot-elements.

* * *

_A/N: This __was originally the pen-ultimate chapter, where all was supposed to be revealed –relationships and killers alike. _

_However, as the writing is coming along slowly right now (due to lack of time, not because of writer's block), I decided to split it into two chapters. So here is the first part, in Reid's POV. The next chapter will switch to Hotch's POV. _

_Enjoy! _

_

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_

**Chapter 8: Revelations, romantic style**

Spencer wakes up.

For a long moment, he is confused. There have been no dreams, there's no clenching anxiety in his chest, there's no foreboding feeling of impending doom – in fact, all he feels is warm. And sated. And he knows that if he turns his head slightly to the left, he will see Aaron Hotchner lying beside him.

Spencer has to turn his head, to make sure, but still his mind refuses to completely believe the truth of the matter, that Hotch is indeed lying there, and probably will continue to do so for as long as Spencer wants it.

For a moment, Spencer feels the crushing weight of insecurity bearing down on him, and he feels the ghost of a hand touching him roughly, choking him, hurting him, a furious voice snarling vicious words – but before he can panic, before he can even contemplate to accept it as the only truth, the memory of strong but gentle touches, possessive touches, and a deep voice murmuring words of praise drowns out the horror the other memories usually incur.

Spencer spends a full minute marveling at the absence of panic.

He senses the weight of a gaze upon him, and when he turns his head again, Hotch's eyes are open and studying him. Spencer sees a range of emotions that sets off his pulse in a slightly hasty beat, and he also sees wariness, caution – which he knows he's earned due to his admittedly rather erratic morning moods for the last four days.

So it makes his chest swell with affection when he has no problem at all sending Hotch a genuine smile and the caution instantly flees those dark brown eyes and makes room for a warmth Spencer isn't sure he deserves.

"Good morning," Hotch says softly, and Spencer only mumbles something incoherent as he burrows closer to the other man, pressing his face against the warm neck with a contented sigh. He can tell Hotch is pleased by his reaction from the way the arm slung casually across his waist tightens and draws them closer together.

Spencer feels like purring like a big, lazy cat when Hotch softly strokes his hair, letting it slide through his fingers again and again. He hums against the soft skin beneath his lips, and he's willing to bet a month's wages that Hotch is smiling rather smugly right now. Spencer has almost gotten over his mortification at being so starved for affection that he reacts to even the smallest touch. Until a few weeks ago, very few people had touched him in something else than a casual or clinical manner. Spencer's always been a bit wary of people touching him, and he knows he hasn't encouraged physical closeness. He's unsure of the social rules that go along with friendly touches, and he knows he's not always able to read people's intentions – unless the intentions are those of a killer trying to stab him, of course. The few times Morgan's managed to practically throw him at a girl when the team's been out, and the even fewer times Spencer's sensed some kind of interest, he's carefully backed off, not feeling ready to engage in the kind of social act he knows is required to build a relationship.

Not that he hasn't longed for someone to touch him. Both in friendly and intimate ways. He's only human, after all, and a man with an eidetic memory and an IQ of 187 is still a man. And he knows that the human skin is built for contact – programmed to receive it from the moment the baby emerges from the mother. And even though Spencer won't label his childhood 'normal' in any way or shape, he can't accuse his mother of not being loving and generous with affectionate touches. So his body is craving the contact – and he can't, won't, hold back his reaction to even the smallest touch, now that he has finally found someone who willingly supplies those touches.

Especially not when Hotch has taken to looking at him with such pleased possessiveness. As if he thinks it a great accomplishment to be the one to make Spencer react like that.

"Dare I ask what you're thinking about?"

Hotch's voice is amused, and Spencer quirks a smile as he pulls his head slightly back to look at Hotch's face.

"Well, you," he says truthfully, making Hotch's eyebrows arch enquiringly. "And me," he adds, and Hotch smiles slowly, looking like the proverbial cat who ate the canary.

"Hmm. And what were you and I doing in your thoughts?" he asks, voice low and dark, and Spencer feels himself blushing. Which is silly, really, seeing as they've already done things that must be illegal in at least thirteen states. Spencer makes an idle mental note to read up on that. Just for the fun of it.

"It was more of an… abstract stream of thoughts," he says with mild reproach, and Hotch chuckles softly, lets his hand rest between Spencer's shoulder blades with gentle pressure.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to insinuate anything." Hotch frowns slightly, looking contrite, and Spencer caresses his arm, smiles against his neck as he burrows close again.

"I forgive you," he mumbles, and Hotch holds him even closer.

Spencer's eyes come to focus on the slightly red and bruised bite mark on Hotch's shoulder, and he feels himself flushing. He traces the edge of the bite softly, praying that Hotch won't get shot or anything, and have to go to the hospital where some meticulous doctor will call in someone to identify the dental records of… no, Spencer won't go there. Instead he presses his lips against the mark.

"I'm sorry I bit you," he mumbles, and feels relieved when Hotch chuckles.

"I forgive you," Hotch says gravely, and Spencer smiles against his skin.

They lie still, peaceful, and if it weren't for his primal urge for coffee, Spencer thinks he could easily spend the whole day like this.

Then Hotch's alarm buzzes, and Spencer groans in protest. The groan turns to an inarticulate sound as Hotch rolls out of bed and stretches, his t-shirt riding up to show taut stomach muscles. Spencer feels like his eyes are glued on the toned body in front of him, and he desperately tries to quell the sudden desire rushing straight to his groin.

"Spencer?"

Hotch has noticed his stare, and has frozen mid-stretch, his expression once again wary, cautious. Spencer knows his behavior has merited that as well, so he only feels the slightest twinge of annoyance.

"I'm okay. I'm just… trying to remember why I thought it was such a good idea that we agreed to take it slowly yesterday," he admits sheepishly, feeling his cheeks burning as Hotch obviously struggles to keep his expression in check.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to tempt you with my very presence."

Spencer hears the barely concealed amusement, and he makes a frustrated sound, glaring sourly at Hotch.

"It's not funny! I mean, how does anyone ever get anything _done_ once they've started to… err…"

"Explore the carnal pleasures?" Hotch helpfully supplies, and he is grinning now. Spencer feels equal parts embarrassment and righteous outrage battling in his mind.

"Shut up. I almost want it to happen even more now that we've agreed not to," he says, and is exasperated by the whine in his own voice. Hotch mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _'I've created a monster'_ under his breath, and Spencer scowls at him.

"I'm sorry, Spencer. There's only really one thing that helps. It's called 'self control'."

Hotch deftly manages to avoid the pillow aimed at his face, and Spencer can hear him laughing all the way into the bathroom until the sound of the shower drowns it out.

Spencer is glad to have a few minutes alone to sulk at the unfairness of it all. But then he grows serious, analytical, as he tries to work out his conflicting feelings.

He feels relief that he still, despite the experience with Harris and the last few days' emotional turmoil, feels the physical attraction and the urge that is still lodged somewhere in his body. And he feels frustrated with the knowledge that if he gives in, and somehow manages to convince Hotch to give in as well, he will most likely not be able to handle the emotional aftershock of the physical sensations.

Spencer spends a moment wondering why that is, and he comes to the conclusion that this is the first time he's not able to separate the intellectual world from the physical world. He can't let Hotch touch him, can't receive that amount of pleasure, without thinking about it – and he can't think about it without his body reacting instantaneously, perking up at the prospect.

"Spencer?"

He looks up, slightly startled, to see Hotch standing by the bathroom door, only clad in a towel. He is frowning, and Spencer thinks he looks slightly guilty. Hotch continues talking, his eyes fixed firmly on Spencer's.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed off your frustration like that. Would you believe me if I said that the relief from our talk yesterday has left me uncharacteristically light-headed?"

Spencer smothers the urge to laugh at the thought of Hotch being anywhere near light-headed. Instead he nods, shrugging.

"It's okay, Hotch. Really. I think I sounded more frustrated than I really feel. Or, rather, I'm trying to figure out how to cope with all this conflict. It's not really easy, seeing as I know it's the right thing to back off, but it still _feels_ wrong. I'm not used to… I mean, it's not like I don't have feelings, but usually I can argue with them. I know that sounds pathetic," he adds with a sigh, and watches Hotch's expression grow softer.

"Spencer. Come here."

Spencer willingly slides out of bed and into Hotch's embrace. His skin is warm and slightly damp, and Spencer inhales the faint smell of soap as he rests his head on Hotch's shoulder.

"I know it's difficult for you," Hotch says, his hands pressing firmly against Spencer's back. "And I'll do anything I can to help you."

"I know," Spencer mumbles. "But I also have very conflicting ideas of just how you _can_ help me."

Hotch holds him tighter for a moment, then gently lets go, taking a small step back so they are looking at each other. His eyes are warm, understanding, as he caresses Spencer's face.

"Don't give up on any of the ideas. We'll just take them in the right order."

"Right," Spencer sighs, then offers a small smile. Hotch doesn't return it – instead he stares at Spencer with an intensity that makes his heart skip a few beats.

"I'll take a shower now," he declares weakly, and Hotch nods and steps away. Spencer practically flees to the bathroom, and he endures a few minutes of cold water, which at least takes care of the physical half of his problems.

He returns to the room and dresses quickly. Hotch is texting on his phone, and he finishes just as Spencer is fastening the last button on his sweater vest. He doesn't miss Hotch's amused quirk of the lips, and he quickly looks down himself.

"What? The tie matches! Doesn't it?"

"Yes it does. I just really like your vests." Hotch's face is straight, and Spencer rolls his eyes.

"Shut up. It's cold outside," he mumbles, and Hotch chuckles.

"Let's get some breakfast. I'm starving," Spencer announces, and as he walks towards the door, Hotch reaches out to grab his hand.

"Spencer – I think we should hold off telling them until we're at the station."

Spencer sighs, and his stomach ties up in knots, making his appetite momentarily vanish.

"You mean," he says drily, "in case Morgan freaks out and tries to kill you?"

Hotch snorts, his hand tightening its grip on Spencer's.

"No. I'd just rather not have anyone overhear us, and there might be other guests."

Spencer nods, and he can't control his impulse to lean forward and give Hotch a gentle, lingering kiss. He pulls back after a moment, and Hotch is looking at him with a soft expression.

"What was that for?"

Spencer shrugs, smiles slightly.

"Just, you know… because I wanted to."

Hotch looks pleased, and Spencer suddenly finds his appetite returning.

The others are already in the dining hall when Spencer walks in a few feet behind Hotch. He raises his hand in a slight wave before heading directly to the buffet. Hotch goes to the table first, and Spencer sees him exchanging a few words with a pale, but otherwise composed, JJ. He piles his plate high with food and slides into the seat next to Morgan, who eyes him speculatively.

"Hungry, Reid?" the other agent asks pointedly, and Spencer, who's busy wolfing down scrambled eggs, only nods and makes an inarticulate, affirmative sound. Rossi chuckles – Spencer notices he's compromised today by taking a pastry, but no bacon – and smirks at Morgan.

"We should take a picture for Garcia. She's always complaining about the kid not getting enough to eat."

Spencer rolls his eyes at being referred to as 'the kid', and wonders if Rossi would like it if Spencer started calling him 'gramps'. Prentiss makes a thinly concealed envious complaint about skinny guys who can eat and eat and never get fat, and Rossi manages to say exactly the wrong thing by letting her know that men _like_ women with curves. Spencer isn't surprised he's three times divorced.

"Did you hear anything from the forensics about Marcus Smith?" Hotch asks as he returns with his breakfast. Morgan shakes his head.

"Only that he was killed by the same… animal that killed the other victims. Same MO. The thing in his hand was a piece of paper. They're analyzing it – I told them to get Garcia in on it. I'll call her when we get to the station."

Hotch nods, and looks at JJ, who returns his look with a thin smile.

"I'm OK, Hotch, and I don't want to go home," she says before he can ask, and Rossi squeezes her arm briefly.

"I support JJ's decision to stay," the older agent says, and JJ smiles at him. "We all hate the idea of having to leave in the middle of a case."

Hotch looks closely at the blonde agent before he nods slowly.

"If you think you can handle it, JJ, I'm not going to tell you to leave. But promise me you'll come to me – or Dave, or Emily, or any of us – if it gets too much."

"I promise," JJ says solemnly, and as she catches Spencer's eye, she smiles tentatively. He does his best to smile back at her, still feeling mortified at yesterday's episode.

"Let's hope the paper Smith was holding can give us something," Hotch says, and they all nod, Spencer with a certain amount of weariness. As Hotch and Morgan start a discussion about other possibilities, Spencer concentrates on his food, feeling as though he hasn't eaten for three days. And he has a feeling he'll need all of his strength today.

* * *

They arrive at the station. Miss White is the first to offer a cheerful greeting, and Spencer catches the by now familiar, motherly look she shoots him as he walks by.

"Ah, good morning!"

The Chief walks across the room to greet them, his expression relieved. Al Black is right on his heels.

"Morning," Hotch greets, and before the Chief can start talking about the case, Hotch continues:

"Dex, I need to talk to my team alone for ten minutes. It's very important, and has nothing to do with the case. When we're done, we're all yours."

Spencer observes the way Prentiss and Morgan shoot each other surprised looks, Rossi merely looks calmly at Hotch, whereas JJ shoots Spencer a quick, anxious glance.

"Oh, uh, of course," the Chief says, oblivious to the looks darting around, his expression slightly confused. "Well, you can just use your office. I'll make sure no-one disturbs you. Just let Al know when you're ready – I have some calls to make."

Hotch nods and strides briskly towards their office, the rest of the team following him, Spencer last.

"Have a seat," Hotch says when the door is shut firmly behind them. Spencer feels his stomach tightening in nervous anticipation. For all his profiling skills, and his own reassurances to Hotch yesterday, he is unsure of how they will all react. He takes the nearest seat, and Hotch sits down next to him, scooting his chair slightly closer to Spencer's. Spencer watches Morgan's eyes grow even more tense as he notices the gesture. JJ looks ready to burst into tears, and Spencer is worried that the shock from yesterday was perhaps too big for her after all.

Hotch pulls out his phone and dials Garcia's number. They've agreed that it's pointless to keep her out of the loop. The wrath she will incur on Spencer when she discovers she is the last to know is not worth the few extra hours of waiting before Morgan blabbers to her.

"Who's the sexiest technical analyst _you_ ever saw?"

The chirpy greeting doesn't really calm Spencer's nerves – especially not as Morgan doesn't react to it at all, keeping his eyes locked on Hotch.

"Hey, Garcia," Hotch says, his voice serious. "You're on speaker phone with all of us. There's something I need to inform the team about. And since you're part of us, you should really listen in."

"Oh!" Garcia sounds surprised and delighted all at once, and Spencer can easily picture her turning away from her monitors to give the phone full attention, setting her tissues within reach in case it's bad new. Or good news. Or just any news that will make her cry.

Hotch places the phone on the table in front of him, and then clears his throat. Spencer sees Prentiss and Morgan simultaneously widen their eyes in surprise at the uncharacteristic, nervous gesture.

Spencer really does hate working with profilers.

He can't stomach watching the team, and chooses the cowardly way out, lowering his eyes to study the table.

"Right." Hotch's voice is clear, firm, and does not betray any emotion. "As I said, I must inform you of something. First, I'd like you all to know that I would never let anything happen that will compromise our work, or any of your careers. What I'm about to tell you is not within proper protocol, and if any of you are not comfortable with the situation, please tell me." He pauses, and then Spencer suddenly feels the weight of a hand on his shoulder. He dares not look up, certain that they all must have caught on by now.

"Oh my god," JJ suddenly blurts out, and her voice is so chagrined that Spencer lifts his head in surprise, looking at her pale and tearful face. Her voice is shaky as she continues.

"Spence, are you… ill?"

Morgan swivels his head to look from JJ to Spencer, his face shocked, and Spencer feels his stomach sinking. JJ thinks something's wrong with him – and that Hotch is breaking protocol by asking them to overlook it, to keep Spencer on the team?

"What? No, JJ, no, I'm not ill…. It's…" He shoots a helpless look at Hotch, who squeezes his shoulder quickly. He sees Rossi make eye contact with Hotch, nodding fleetingly in encouragement.

"No-one's ill," Hotch reassures, and JJ relaxes minutely, though she still looks tense and worried. Spencer feels the hand on his shoulder tighten its hold, and his stomach nearly explodes with nervous butterflies as Hotch is about to speak.

"During the last few weeks, Reid—Spencer and I…. have grown very close." Hotch pauses, and Spencer thinks he could easily hear the sound of a pin dropping to the ground. He prays that Hotch won't actually have to spell out that…

"**Oh my god!"**

The phone on the table shrieks shrilly, and Spencer almost jumps off his chair. Garcia keeps talking into the silent room.

"Does he mean that… Hotch, do you really mean…? Oh my god! Oh my god! I thought someone'd _died_, but this is so much _better_! Oh my god! Why am I the only one talking? Is anyone hugging? Somebody'd better be hugging somebody! JJ – give my baby a hug! Oh my _god_…"

She keeps repeating the same track, and Spencer catches JJ's shell-shocked, watery look. Suddenly she smiles, and Spencer has to return it and nod in answer to her unasked question. She quickly slides off her chair and rushes around the table, and then Spencer finds himself enveloped by her arms. Hotch doesn't let go of his shoulder, and JJ withdraws after a short moment, obviously not wanting to push his limits. Spencer never forgets exactly why he likes JJ so much.

"I'm so happy for you, Spence," JJ whispers, though in the silent room it might as well have been a shout. "And you, sir," she adds with less fervor to Hotch, who only nods in reply.

"Thanks," Spencer croaks, feeling the heavy weight of Morgan's gaze on him. He takes a deep breath and looks at Morgan, and he savors the look of utter surprise on the other agent's face, storing it away for future references.

"You were talking about _Hotch_ yesterday?" Morgan blurts out the words, looking between Hotch and Spencer with sheer incredulity. Spencer quickly recalls exactly what he did tell Morgan, and inwardly grimaces at a few of the more… private details.

"Yeah," he acknowledges, willing Morgan to protest with a challenging look. But the darker agent merely shakes his head, shooting Hotch a look of something Spencer would label as newfound respect. He keeps his blush firmly in check.

Emily shifts in her chair, letting out a whooshing breath.

"Wow. I did not see **that** coming. And you knew!" she continues, glaring daggers at Rossi who does his best to look innocent. She swats at the older profiler's arm. "You do **not** look surprised enough!"

Rossi merely shrugs and sends her his trademark smug smile. Spencer almost feels like intervening when it looks like Emily is about to wipe it off his face by force.

"I hope you all know," Hotch says, and everyone's attention shifts back to him, "that we would not come forward with this if it was just some… _fling_. It's not. It's…" He falters, obviously searching for an appropriate description of their change in relationship status, and Spencer searches his mind, effectively blocking big and scary words like _commitment_ or _lo—_no, he can't even think it.

"Serious," he helpfully supplies, and Hotch nods.

"Yes, serious. We have discussed this, and we agree that you all deserve to know. But let me assure you that both Spencer and I will not let this influence our work. Just as none of us has ever before let our personal lives influence our work. And if you do feel it happening, I expect you to come to me. Preferably before you go to Strauss," he adds wryly, and Emily grimaces briefly.

"Wait, how did this _happen_?" Garcia's voice is insistent on the phone again, and she adds quickly, as if she can see Hotch's stern expression: "If you don't mind telling."

Spencer looks at Hotch, and as the hand on his shoulder moves ever so slightly in a gentle caress, Spencer knows Hotch is leaving it up to him to tell what he's comfortable with. He reaches one of his own hands up to cover Hotch's on his shoulder, and smiles quickly, gratefully. Then he turns his attention to the rest of the team again, and sees Rossi hand JJ a tissue as her tears are finally spilling over.

"Sorry, don't mind me," she says, smiling at them through her tears, "I'm just so… happy for you. Please go on."

Spencer locks eyes with her for a moment, and they share a silent smile. Then he takes a deep breath.

"You all know I haven't been… feeling well since the Harris case," he begins, and in a low voice he tells them briefly what took place during those 24 hours in Harris' basement. He leaves out the more cruel details, and the fact that his… relationship with Hotch quite literally began then and there. Though he knows Morgan will be able to figure it out, after their talk yesterday.

"I don't know what I would have done without Hotch there," he finishes truthfully. "And since then, he's been very supportive, and I guess it just turned into something… more. You all know I can have a pretty hard time relating to other people, socially, and I can't just go out and… meet someone. But I already know and trust Hotch. And the rest of you." Spencer feels tears pressing behind his eyes, and he blinks them back, doesn't want to break down now. He sees understanding in Rossi's eyes, fury and consolation in Morgan's, chagrin and sympathy in Emily's and horror and empathy in JJ's. Hotch's hand is warm, comforting on his shoulder, and Spencer squeezes it tightly before he goes, on, and he can't stop the shaking of his voice.

"I'm sorry for the way I've acted in the last days. I thought I was coping well, but I'm not. I'm going to get help when we return. But I feel so guilty. I don't want to compromise the team. You're… my family. And through everything, every nightmare, every insecurity I've had, every bad case we've worked and every murdering psychopath we've met, the thought of being a part of this team when all is said and done has kept me sane and optimistic. It's like… standing in the middle of a great, terrible storm, in the eye of a hurricane of chaos and horror, and knowing that I am always secure in the center, where everything is calm and safe."

Spencer has to pause his speech to collect himself, and JJ starts weeping openly, clutching his free hand. Morgan pushes back his chair with a determined look and comes around the table to kneel between Spencer and JJ, sliding an arm around each of them. Emily leans across Hotch to place her hand on top of the one Spencer has on top of Hotch's. Rossi slides an arm around JJ as well, softly squeezing the hand she is trying to squeeze the life out of Spencer's with. Hotch's phone is emitting suspiciously sniffling sounds.

Spencer is powerless to stop the tears from falling now, and since both his hands are occupied by several of his team members, he merely lets them slide down his cheeks and drip to the table. No-one speaks or moves for a minute, but then Emily silently hands Spencer a tissue.

"Thanks," he mumbles, and Morgan squeezes his shoulder before taking his seat again. Spencer feels the slight awkwardness in the room, and he desperately searches his mind for something to say when Emily casually leans back in her chair and says, her voice deadpan:

"So, Spencer – this means you've actually seen our unit chief without his… tie."

They all dissolve into giggles and chuckles – except for Hotch who rolls his eyes and tries not to smile – and Spencer can hear a slightly hysterical note in his own laugh, and feel the furious blush that managed to spread on his face at the very thought of Emily finishing that question with an entirely inappropriate content.

"Hey! No-one makes fun of my baby," comes Garcia's stern voice from the phone. Morgan chuckles, and then his expression turns somber.

"Hey, man, I think it's cool. Just promise me one thing." He looks from Spencer to Hotch, and they're both nodding as Morgan continues in a grave voice.

"Promise me you'll never go into Hotch's office and close the door. I'll go insane wondering what you're actually doing in there."

This time, the volume of Rossi's and Emily's gales of laughter must surely have drawn the attention of the entire police station, even through closed doors. Spencer balls up his tissue and throws it at Morgan, who doesn't even bother dodging it in between his laughs.

"Please, Morgan, give me a little more credit," Hotch says, and his voice is stern. "I would watch out for Dave in the copy room, though," he adds, and there's a humorous gleam in his eyes as he looks at Rossi, who in return holds up his hands in surrender.

"Fine, Hotch, you win. Emily," Rossi continues, turning his head to look at his colleague, "when we come back to D.C., I'm taking you to dinner." He shoots Hotch a triumphant look. "I'm sure our unit chief will overlook this… breach of protocol."

Emily looks flustered and pleased at the same time, and Hotch is rolling his eyes again.

"Fine, Dave – _you_ win."

"I know," Rossi replies smugly, matter-of-factly, winking at Emily. Spencer thinks it suits her with a red tinge to her face.

"What? Is this going to be par for course for this team?" Morgan sounds dismayed, and JJ apologetically waves her ringed hand when he looks at her. Then he eyes the phone on the table speculatively, but as he opens his mouth to speak, Garcia's voice rings out.

"Don't you even **think** about that, Derek Morgan, or Kevin will kick your ass!"

Emily snorts and makes some witty remark, but Spencer's attention has shifted to focus solely on Hotch. He gives a small, tentative smile, and Hotch softly caresses his neck, giving him such an intense look that Spencer has to gulp down a breath. He tears his eyes away and meets Morgan's partly amused, partly disapproving look, and Spencer thinks Hotch might as well have thrown him across the table and fucked him senseless.

Really, the man should know better – these damn profilers don't miss anything.

"So," Hotch is cutting through, his hand mercifully drawn away from Spencer's neck, "let's focus all our energy on this case. And let's catch this unsub. Better today than tomorrow."

They all nod in consent, and Spencer watches Emily and Rossi instantaneously shut down their playful, flirty banter and compartmentalize, watches Morgan sitting straight, alert in his chair, and JJ collecting herself quicker than Spencer would have given her credit for, which pleases him to no end.

"I discovered something that might be interesting," Garcia pipes up in the phone, and her voice is all business – though Spencer knows he's only been temporarily excused from a third degree interview.

"Let's hear it, Garcia." Hotch straightens in his chair, and they all look at the phone on the table.

"I spoke with the lab guys about the item Marcus Smith had in his hand," Garcia starts, her voice taking on a hectic undertone. "It was a piece of paper, but with a very distinctive pattern on it. I ran some recognition programs, and it turns out it's a piece of paper from a page of a journal. It belonged to Ivan Karasek, a famous Russian jeweler who migrated to the US in 1884, and is displayed at the local museum, Carmine Falls Museum of Arts.

The interesting thing is that the museum reported a theft two days ago, right after Timothy Pears was found dead in the parking lot. It's in the daily report from the police station – the report was written by an officer Hamill."

"Wait! What about Martha's crucifix?" Prentiss is leaning out of her chair, her expression eager. "Remember, Hotch, she said the killer took a silver crucifix. Could it have been from the museum?"

"Could all the victims have stolen something from the museum?" Rossi adds, and suddenly everyone is on their feet.

"Thank you, Garcia, we may have a lead now," Hotch says tersely and switches off his phone. "Prentiss, call Martha Coleman and ask her in detail about that crucifix. Ask her if she thinks it could have been stolen by the man who gave it to Hills. JJ, ask Greene if there's any local gossip about the museum. Morgan, speak with Hamill about the report. Reid, Dave, I think we'll pay the museum a visit."

They all nod in turn, and Spencer hastily gathers up his things, eager to do anything that might solve this case.

They exit the office, and Al Black immediately approaches them, his face slightly anxious.

"Hey, uh, is everything alright?" He visibly relaxes when Hotch nods quickly, and the look of utter relief on his face as Hotch fills him in on the conversation with Garcia is almost comical.

"You think there could be a connection? **Chief**!" The bellow startles Spencer slightly, and the Chief bursts out of his office with an eager expression, quickly excusing himself to the person he was having a phone conversation with.

"Any news?" The Chief's eyes dart between Hotch and Al Black, and Hotch once again repeats the conversation with Garcia.

"The museum?" The Chief looks incredulous, and Spencer sees him exchanging a look with Al Black. Hotch obviously catches it as well, because he looks slowly between the Chief and the Deputy.

"Does that mean anything to you?" the unit chief asks sharply, and the Chief cringes at the same time that Al Black shakes his head in exasperation.

"Well, uh," the Chief begins, looking rather uncomfortable, "there's a rumor about the museum having a connection to the… werewolf." He obviously doesn't want to say the last word, which comes out in a subdued voice. Spencer looks at Hotch and Rossi, who both look politely encouraging.

"Why didn't you tell us this before? We might have discovered the connection between the victims earlier." Hotch's voice is not-quite-sharp, but still the Chief blanches.

"I honestly didn't remember it until now. It's just vague rumors. I remember it from my childhood – the museum had stone wolf statues, 'guardians' they were called. But they were taken down several years ago. I don't know why. You should talk to Frank Meissner, he's the director of the museum. I don't know more than this – and I never thought to connect any of the victims to this."

The Chief looks so crushed at his own oversight that Spencer sees Hotch relax and place a hand on the man's shoulder.

"Don't feel bad, Dex. But it looks like it might be a rather substantial lead. I still don't believe in werewolves," Hotch adds wryly, "but I do believe that someone might be using the story to kill these people."

Rossi steps up and looks curiously at the Chief.

"Dex, if I might ask – if you didn't recall the museum rumors until now, why have you, and others, all along assumed this was the work of a werewolf?"

The Chief looks appealingly at Al Black, who raises his hands in defense.

"Hey, don't look at me, Dex. You know I never believed in that cr—that story."

"You weren't born and raised here," the Chief counters, and he looks at Rossi with narrowed eyes. "There's always been talk of a werewolf in Carmine Falls. Since I was a kid, and heck, when my dad and granddad were kids. No-one's ever seen it, save for Martha Coleman and a few old drunks, and those sightings were never credited. But the way people have been killed – no human could have done that. And your people confirmed that they couldn't explain the DNA, didn't they?"

Hotch and Rossi look briefly at each other, and Hotch replies: "We can't explain that right now, no. But I'm sure there is a logical explanation behind th—"

"Wait – sorry, Hotch." Spencer has been mulling over the Chief's words, and a sudden thought strikes him. "You said the museum had wolf 'guardians', and that they were taken down. _When_ did this happen?"

The Chief thinks for a moment, and then his eyes go wide, his face pale, and he stares at Spencer with something close to panic in his eyes.

"It was in 1967. Right around the time…."

"… the previous killing spree stopped," Spencer finishes the sentence. He looks at Hotch and Rossi, who are already moving towards the exit.

"Al, go with them," the Chief barks, and then he sits heavily in a chair, looking exactly like a man who's just won an argument, and doesn't understand why it doesn't feel like a victory.

Al Black shoots Spencer an indeterminable look, and then they follow Hotch and Rossi outside.

Spencer speculates on how exactly he's going to write in his report for this case that this is the moment he suddenly believes they're setting out to arrest a werewolf.

_A/N: Stay tuned for the next chapter, to discover whether our mysterious killer is finally revealed… _


	9. Revelations, killer style

Eye of the Hurricane

**Summary**: As the BAU team deals with a killer who doesn't seem quite human, Reid must deal with the aftermath of being raped, and sort out his relationship with Hotch. Sequel to one-shot "Shelter from Storm".

**Disclaimer**: I do not own Criminal Minds, nor do I make money from writing about it.

Un-beta'ed – any mistakes are my own.

**Warnings**: References to non-con Reid/OC. Rated M for the slashy stuff. Supernatural plot-elements.

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_A/N: This is it, folks – the last chapter!_

_Thank you very much for reading along, and a special thank you to those of you who have taken the time to leave reviews. It means a lot to this humble writer._

_I'm very sorry this last chapter has been so long in the makings – a death in my close family really put a stop to the writing process for some weeks._

_I hope those of you who have been writing me messages of varying degrees of encouragement and frustration will sleep more easily now. :)_

_Enjoy!_

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**Chapter 9: Revelations, killer style**

Aaron stares through the window as Rossi speeds through Carmine Falls. He can feel the weight of Al Black's stare at the back of his head, and as he catches the Deputy's eyes in the rearview mirror, Al Black smiles wryly.

"Still don't believe in werewolves?"

"No," Aaron replies, raising his eyebrows in query. "Do you?"

"No." Al Black laughs shortly, and Aaron looks away. He hates these conversations where both parties know the other is lying.

Aaron looks at Reid in the mirror. He is reading intently on his phone, and Aaron bets with himself on what the subject is.

"What have you found out about Karasek, Reid?"

"Well, it's rather interesting," Reid begins eagerly, and Aaron loves being right.

"Ivan Karasek was a jeweler, and one of the more ruthless types who had no problem at all exploiting poor workers in the mines until they died from exhaustion. The story is that apparently, he coveted his diamonds so much that he didn't want anyone else to have them, ever. So he made a deal with the devil, that in exchange for Karasek's soul, the diamonds could never be removed from his estate. Even when he was dead, he didn't want anyone else to own the diamonds. Karasek commissioned the wolf stone guardians from a European contractor, and when he built his estate, they were all placed around the top ledge, right below the roof, in a completely synchronic pattern. There are 16 of them in total.

And if anyone should ever dare to take one of Karasek's diamonds from his estate, one of the guardians will come alive and not stop until the perpetrator is dead and the diamond returned to its rightful owner."

"And Karasek's estate…" Aaron begins, and Reid interrupts, "… is now the museum, yes."

Al Black clenches his jaw, and Rossi takes the speed up another notch.

They arrive at the museum, which resembles a small castle placed in the middle of a picturesque park. As they exit the car, Aaron catches sight of the four wolf guardians on the front of the building. They all pause and stare at the guardians, who look oddly in place on the gothic-inspired and towering building.

"Let's find this Meissner," Rossi says after a minute, and they all stride into the museum.

Frank Meissner is a tall and thin man, with a thin moustache and a three-piece suit that makes him look like he belongs to a world fifty years ago. He instantly recognizes Al Black, and his greeting is smooth and brisk, his eyes darting to the agents with ill-concealed curiosity.

"Mr. Meissner," Al Black starts, his manner polite and no-nonsense. "These are agents Hotchner, Rossi and Reid with the FBI. They're here to help us investigate the recent murders. The werewolf killings."

As Al Black utters the word werewolf, director Meissner makes a sound like a strangled cough, his eyes bulging almost comically as he takes a small step back.

"Werewolf? How absurd!" He barks out a forced laugh, and stops when he realizes the rest of them are not close to even smiling.

"Surely you've heard the rumors," Rossi interjects with a small smile, and Meissner narrows his eyes as he shifts his attention to the senior profiler.

"Rumors, yes." His voice has a dry, jaded undertone. "I don't take rumors seriously. They don't concern me."

"Not even when a killer is very likely using your museum's history to murder several people?" Aaron hears his own voice coming out as silky and dangerous, and Meissner blinks a few times.

"My mu…. Oh! You mean the guardians? Karasek's guardians?" This time, Meissner's laughter doesn't sound forced, but rather genuine.

"Do you really think a lump of stone can come alive and go after some petty thief?" His disdainful look moves from Aaron to sweep over the other agents and Al Black, including them all in his scorn. "If some deranged person is using this old fishwife's tale to kill people, I hardly think it's my responsibility, or anyone else's."

"Mr. Meissner," Reid says quickly, "how come you didn't report all the thefts from the museum?"

Meissner shrugs and plucks an invisible thread off his jacket.

"I saw no need to. The items were returned the next day. And I didn't want any _rumors_ to start circulating that the staff of the museum were taking the items in some kind of insurance scam."

"And you didn't wonder why the items suddenly appeared the day after?" Reid's voice is insistent, and Meissner frowns.

"Of course I wondered! I just assumed that the thief in question was one of the usual drunken high school dropouts with nothing better to do, and his mother or girlfriend made him see the error of his ways and return the things! Besides, none of the things we had stolen were expensive pieces. So usually, if one of my custodians reports a theft from their area, I hold off a day or two reporting it to the police. And it's only been necessary in very few cases."

"How come you restored Karasek's guardians?" Al Black asks the question, and Meissner looks pleased to be asked.

"They belong to the building. It's one of the oldest and most renowned buildings in the state, if not in the whole country. It's very widely recognized especially in Europe, where history tends to be more preserved and respected than here." He gives a disdainful sniff. "I received an offer from a museum in Germany, that in exchange for a special display of German historic art here at our museum, they would be willing to pay half the price of having the guardians restored and put back up. It wasn't really an offer I could refuse. I've been wanting to do it for all of the 17 years I've been the director here, but the funds have never been plentiful. People around here don't appreciate art." He sniffs again, clearly not impressed by the local support.

"And you've never noticed anything odd about the guardians? They've never gone… missing?" Al Black falters slightly at the last word, as if he realizes his mistake even before the sentence is completed. Aaron groans inwardly, and Meissner fixes a cold look on Al Black.

"Deputy, I do not appreciate you coming here and mocking me in my own museum." Meissner's voice is cold as well, and he cuts off Al Black as the Deputy tries to interrupt. "Now, unless you gentlemen wish to arrest me for something, I suggest you leave. Good day." Al Black opens his mouth again, and Meissner barks out, "**good** **day**!"

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Meissner," Rossi says smoothly, and Aaron places his hand on Al Black's elbow and firmly applies pressure until the Deputy follows him out of the room.

"Sorry, I messed that one up," Al Black says ruefully, and Rossi pats him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry about it, Al. It was clear he had no interest at all in telling us anything. Perhaps we should take a look around?"

They all move down the hall, and Aaron has to firmly push at Reid's back a few times as the younger agent stops to look at an exhibit.

"Sorry," Reid mutters. "It's just so interesting." Aaron can't help but smile, and Reid rolls his eyes in response.

"Hey, FBI."

The voice coming from an open office door is low and cautious, and as Aaron pauses he sees a man hovering inside the office. His uniform is that of a custodian, but he looks rather disheveled; his eyes are roaming around with a slightly panicked sheen, he is sweating and he keeps clenching his hands together.

"Yes?" Aaron doesn't approach the man, and he senses Rossi, Reid and Al Black pausing behind him.

"Look, I know Meissner didn't tell you anything. He doesn't… believe in the curse of Karasek. But," the custodian swallows convulsively, "some of us do. And we want it to end! But he won't listen! You have to do something – please!" His voice rises in agitation on the last word, and Aaron holds out a hand placatingly, and modulates his voice to a calm level.

"Relax, sir. We'll listen to what you have to say. I'm agent Hotchner with the FBI. These are agents Reid and Rossi, and Deputy Black."

"Yeah." The custodian relaxes visibly, nodding briefly at Al Black. "I know you, Deputy. I'm Sam Hauser. Please, come inside."

Aaron nods, and they all file into the small office. It's rather cramped, and Reid has to squish himself inside between Rossi and Aaron, the slight pressure of his arm and the warmth of his skin a peripheral, familiar comfort to Aaron.

Sam Hauser is pacing in the small space behind a desk, his hands wringing together in a frustrated gesture.

"It's the cursed statues. I know it. People think I'm crazy! But do you think it's a coincidence that the murders started after they were restored and put back up?"

Hauser fixes a slightly crazed look on the agents, his pacing coming to an abrupt halt.

"I know you think some psycho is using the story to kill people. But this is not the work of a human! You've seen the victims! They're shredded! Torn apart!"

His voice rises in hysteria, and Aaron senses Rossi take a step forward, his voice soothing as he speaks.

"Relax, Sam. We believe it's not a human who's the killer. We believe you. Please, tell me about the statues. Do you mean Karasek's guardians?"

Hauser looks slightly mollified, and his eyes lose the glazed look as he wipes a sweaty hand on his equally sweaty forehead.

"Yes, the guardians. Sorry, I'm a bit unsettled. I'm…" He takes a deep breath, the buttons on his custodian's uniform jacket straining with the effort.

"I tried to talk to Meissner, but he laughed it off. I was afraid he'd fire me if I pushed it any further, or went to the police. Hell, I was afraid you'd all lock me up on the spot!" He looks at Al Black and barks out a mirthless laugh. "The stone guardians were put up by Karasek when he founded the museum. The story goes that he made a pact with a demon from the blackest part of Hell. In exchange for his soul, the demon cursed the guardians so that they would come alive and hunt down anyone who tried to take what was rightfully Karasek's. Since he founded the museum, the curse apparently includes all of the museum's property, and not just Karasek's diamonds. Actually, I don't recall anyone ever trying to steal one of those. Security is too tight. Some of the less guarded items, however….. small paintings, sculptures…"

"Idols?" Rossi asks smoothly, and Hauser nods.

"Yes, an idol was stolen two nights ago. It turned up this morning. It's always… I mean, the items are always left in the basement. That's how we find out they're stolen. In the last months…" He swallows convulsively. "In the last months, whenever I've found an item, I've also read about a killing in the newspaper later in the day. It's no coincidence!"

Hauser's voice rises in agitation once more, and Aaron speaks quickly before the man can work himself up again.

"Hauser, have you considered the possibility that this _is_ the work of a man? Can you think of anyone among your colleagues who hates thieves, and who would want to punish whoever stole something from this museum?"

Hauser looks slightly stricken.

"No! I can't think anyone of my colleagues would... murder people in cold blood! It's the guardians! You have to believe me!"

"I believe you." Reid's voice is calm and sincere, and Hauser's attention shifts eagerly to the youngest agent. "Sam, can you please show us the room where the guardians were kept until they were restored?"

Hauser blinks a few times, then looks at the bundle of keys that hangs from his belt.

"The room? Oh, uh, sure. No harm in that, I guess."

His posture betrays his words, however, and before Aaron can speak, Rossi's calm voice sounds.

"The stolen items – they were returned to that room, weren't they?"

Hauser nods, his lips drawn tightly together, his face pale.

"Why don't you lend me your keys and show us the way, and we'll see for ourselves?" Rossi makes the suggestion in a cajoling voice, but Hauser shakes his head.

"No, no, I can't let you do that. It's my responsibility to… I'll go down with you and unlock the door. But then you're on your own."

Rossi nods in acceptance, and they all leave the small office, a reluctant Sam Hauser leading the way.

"Some of us always thought there was something dodgy about those guardians," the custodian says as they walk along a long corridor. "Like they watched you wherever you went. And when Meissner and the board decided to restore them and put them back up…" He swallows convulsively. "We didn't want to believe our own superstitions. But only three days after they were set in place, the first killing happened."

They've reached a door which Hauser unlocks to reveal a narrow staircase, and the man falls silent as he leads them down. After a few paces, they stop before a solid-looking iron door.

"This is it," Hauser says, and his face has gone from sweaty red to waxy pale.

"Thank you, Sam. If you'll just unlock, we'll go inside and look around. You can leave if you like." Rossi's voice is calm and he places a hand on Hauser's shoulder, which makes the man jump slightly, then relax. He nods and jangles his keys as he searches for the right one.

"Here you go. I—I think I'll leave." Hauser's voice is barely a whisper, and before any of them can reply he's already heading back up the stairs.

Aaron and Rossi exchange a look, and then they both step into the room at the same time, Reid and Al Black right behind them.

"It's kind of musty in here," the Carmine Falls Deputy remarks, his nose cringing in distaste. Aaron nods in agreement – in fact, the clammy atmosphere of the room seems to seep through his suit and cling to his skin in a way that makes the hairs on his arms rise.

The room is rather large and very bare, with dark concrete walls and a few ventilation ducts. It seems to be permanently lit by a row of soft lights fixed in the ceiling.

In both sides, there is a hole in the wall which presumably leads to smaller side-rooms. Aaron heads for the right one as Rossi heads for the left, and Aaron notices that they both reach for their guns at exactly the same time.

A quick search of the right room reveals exactly the same as the main room – a ventilation duct, bare walls, bare floor.

"There's something in here," Rossi calls, and Aaron reacts to the non-urgency in his voice and stays relaxed as he quickly crosses the main room. Reid and Al Black are already lined up behind Rossi, and Aaron allows his hand to rest on Reid's shoulder as he looks between them.

Rossi has his gun trained on something big and lumpy, covered by a white sheet. Aaron catches his eye and nods, gently shoving at Reid until he and Al Black step back. Then Aaron raises his gun to aim at whatever is covered by the sheet and Rossi slowly reaches out a hand. He nods at Aaron, and then quickly yanks the sheet away.

Aaron firmly tells himself that werewolves don't exist, that he shouldn't expect something out of the ordinary under that sheet, that he's been in this job long enough to not be scared by anything – and despite himself, he feels his heart skipping a beat, and the moment before his eyes focus on the thing beneath the sheet seems to be drawn out for several seconds.

Al Black lets out a breath that's halfway a laugh, and Aaron lets his gun train on the floor as he stretches and relaxes.

"Ugly fellow," Rossi remarks, and they all stare at the big lump of stone under the sheet. It's one of the wolf guardians, and it's obviously been left behind because its right hind leg has broken off and no attempt has yet been made to mend it.

"Yeah" Al Black agrees, "even uglier up close. Look at those teeth. No wonder the custodians are freaked out by it."

Aaron watches with bemusement as the Deputy warily prods the guardian's shoulder, as if he expects it to come alive. Their eyes meet, and Al Black flushes slightly. Before he can say anything, though, Aaron's phone suddenly gives a single ring and then is silent.

"The connection must be rather sporadic in this concrete basement," Rossi remarks, and Aaron nods as he inspects the display. _Lost call from Derek Morgan._

"I'm going outside," he says, and as he moves out of the room and into the hallway, the phone suddenly rings again.

"Hey, Morgan, we're in the basement. The connection is bad."

"Hotch, we're in the parking lot. Where can we join you?"

Aaron quickly guides the three agents to the entrance, and after a few minutes Morgan, JJ and Prentiss are bounding down the stairs.

"What did you find out?"

Aaron carefully watches JJ's face as he asks the question, and she offers him a slightly shaky smile in return. Prentiss takes a small step forward, as if to shield JJ from Aaron's view.

"I spoke with Mrs. Coleman. She says the crucifix could definitely have been stolen from the museum. Apparently, Hills' friend was '_that type of fellow_' who would steal from anywhere to make a few bucks. And from the short glimpse of it, she thought it looked rather ornate and expensive, not something you would buy, or steal, at the local drugstore."

"And Greene told me there's plenty of talk of the museum," JJ takes over. "He also feels stupid for not realizing the connection sooner. But in his generation it's mostly seen as an urban legend, because he wasn't even alive when the guardians were taken down. The younger people in town think the older people are superstitious and hysterical."

Morgan is nodding, and starts speaking when JJ pauses.

"Yeah, I talked with Hamill about the report from the other day. Turns out Meissner was away at a conference and the report was made by his second in command, a guy named James Ashley. Meissner actually called Hamill the day after to retract the report, but no-one managed to have the time to do it in-between the murder investigations."

"I'm not surprised," Aaron says wryly, and he quickly fills them in on their conversation with Meissner.

"Seems his biggest concern is the museum's economical reputation," he finishes, and JJ curls her lip in disdain. "He's worried the return of the stolen items makes it look like an insurance fraud."

Morgan purses his lips and nods. "I can kind of see where he's coming from. It does look rather dodgy from the outside."

"More dodgy than a killer made of stone?" Rossi's dry voice sounds from behind them, and they all turn to look at the older agent, who smiles lopsidedly. Morgan gives a quick smile, and amends, "well, maybe slightly less dodgy than a killer made of stone."

Al Black appears behind Rossi, his phone clutched to his ear.

"Dex? Dex! Oh, you hear me now? What? Hello? Oh, stupid concrete." The last words are muttered in annoyance and the Carmine Falls Deputy paces up and down the hall in an attempt to find a break in the electronic dead zone.

"Wanna see a broken version of our would-be killer?" Rossi asks, his face and voice deadpan as he looks at Morgan, JJ and Prentiss. Aaron watches how the two others give JJ a very quick, concerned look – and she notices it too, because she gives a little shake of her head as she steps towards the door and Rossi.

"Sure, lead the way," the blonde agent proclaims, and they all file into the room, Aaron last.

"Ugh, what a climate," Prentiss remarks, shuddering her shoulders in distaste. Reid pops his head out of the left room, and beckons towards them.

"Hey, guys, the guardian is in here. It's fascinating! The design is dominantly gothic, but there are some details that make it very unusual for that period…" His voice is muted slightly as JJ, Morgan and Prentiss follow him into the small room.

Aaron is exchanging a slightly amused glance with Rossi when there's suddenly a loud bang. They are both instantly reaching for their guns, scanning the room, and Aaron's gaze falls on the now closed door.

"Dave." The older agent is looking at the door as well, nodding grimly. Aaron moves across the room, knowing that Rossi has his back, and he jiggles the latch. It's locked, and Aaron doesn't want to damage his shoulder by throwing himself against the solid planes of iron.

"Aaron."

The single word from Rossi makes Aaron's neck prickle as his hair stands on end. He's never heard that particular tone from the senior agent before. He turns, warily, and tries to meet Rossi's eyes, but the other agent is looking at the floor in the direction of the right room. Aaron follows his gaze, and feels his stomach clenching once, suddenly.

On the floor is a beautiful vase. It's small, probably around the size of Aaron's fist, and looks to be part of a collection from the Ming dynasty.

It looks eerily like it belongs in a museum.

And Aaron is certain that it hasn't been there the whole time.

Which means…

"Someone placed it here while we were in the hall," Rossi concludes. His voice is strangely subdued.

"Reid." Aaron raises his voice in not quite a shout, but loud enough to make the younger agent abruptly cut off his explanation of gothic art design and join them in the large room, the other agents right behind him.

"Hotch?"

Reid looks incredulous as his eyes flicker between Aaron and Rossi, both frozen in the middle of the floor. Then he looks at the vase on the floor, and he takes a small step back, eyes wide, hand going for his revolver.

"Is that…. Shit!"

JJ makes a strangled sound, and Morgan immediately places a hand on her shoulder.

"Let's not panic," Aaron forces himself to say, though he can feel his own body tightening in the early stages of fight-or-flight-reaction. "Anyone could have put that in here."

"Sneaking past all of us in the hall?" Prentiss sounds utterly doubtful, and Aaron can't really disagree with her.

"I was in the side room the whole time," Reid states, "and I didn't hear anything at all. And…" He cuts himself off abruptly, darting a look at the left room, and Aaron is willing to bet good money that the younger agent was about to state that the broken guardian was lying motion- and lifeless the whole time.

"There must be another entrance," Aaron states flatly, and they all simultaneously look at the ventilation ducts.

"Al is outside. He must be returning in a moment. Let's try to contact him." Rossi whips out his phone, and suddenly they're all in motion.

* * *

Aaron isn't quite sure how it happens.

Morgan is pounding on the door, shouting out for Al Black. Prentiss is eyeing the ventilation ducts thoughtfully. Rossi is moving around with his cell phone, trying to find a spot where the connection can go through the concrete walls. JJ is standing near the far side wall, her cell phone in hand as well. And Reid is standing near Morgan, telling the other agent something Aaron can't hear.

Aaron is the only one close enough to hear the low growl, and the sound reverberates through his bones as he feels the hair on his arms rising in the reptile brain's most primal defensive mechanism. He reaches for his gun, but before he can turn around, three things happen simultaneously.

The door suddenly flies open, displaying Al Black's confused face on the other side.

Reid makes a move for the open doorway.

And something huge and gray and snarling lunges past Aaron and heads for the open door as well.

"REID!"

Aaron's shout mixes with the sound of JJ's scream.

Reid spins around, his face both shocked and alert.

The next few seconds seem to happen in slow-motion.

Aaron watches the… creature reach the open door in three jumps from powerful hind legs. Reid makes a move to get out of the way – Morgan is reaching out as if he wants to yank the younger agent out of danger's way.

And then the creature clears the only obstacle standing in its way.

Aaron sees the front legs extending, sees the reflection of huge claws gleaming in Reid's eyes, sees the creature seeming to sail through the air until it collides with Reid, claws raking over his body, pushing him over, making him fall hard onto the floor, making his head impact with the cold, hard, steely gray concrete floor.

Aaron barely registers the exploding sound of three gunshots ringing out as he suddenly finds himself in the open doorway. He isn't sure how he moved across the floor. He hears Rossi shouting at JJ to cease fire, but the sounds are subdued, muddled, as if he's breathing through water...

The only thing he sees is Reid's face, frozen in shock, the brown eyes wide open, unfocused, the still form on the floor, unmoving.

Aaron thinks he would scream out in agony if his heart hadn't lodged itself in his throat. He would tear something apart with his hands, if they weren't busy grabbing Reid's coat so hard his knuckles are turning white.

Morgan is next to him, saying something, and Aaron can't bring himself to hear it, can't bring himself to hear the words, to know that it's true that…

"Hey, Hotch, I can't see if he's hurt when you're hovering like this." Morgan's slightly exasperated voice somehow breaks through, and Aaron stares incredulously down at his own hands, stares at Reid's face, where the eyes are suddenly blinking, focusing, and the mouth grimaces in pain as Reid snaps out of his shock and discovers the pain from the impact.

"Oh, ow. That thing was **heavy**." His voice is cracking slightly, but to Aaron it's the most beautiful sound he's ever heard.

He feels a sudden, overwhelming urge to cry.

He wants to say Reid's name, but he's afraid to shatter if he speaks a word.

"Hey, shouldn't someone go after that thing, instead of standing around he—mmpf!"

Reid's sentence is cut short as Aaron pulls him up and into a tight embrace, effectively cutting off his breath.

Aaron clings to the younger agent, and his heart is beating erratically fast, and he can feel tears pressing behind the eyes he's shut tightly as he buries his face in familiar, chestnut hair, and he speaks soundlessly, lips barely moving as they make out all the words he's not ready to say out loud.

"Uh, Hotch….."

"Shut up, Morgan." The words are a growl, muffled by Reid's hair.

"But…"

"I. Need. A. Minute."

As if to accentuate, he tightens his hold on Reid, breathes hard through his nose, tries to calm down.

He knows they all must be staring incredulously at him.

He doesn't care.

"Hotch," Reid croaks after not quite a minute, "need to breathe. Now."

Aaron is reluctant to let him go, but he softens his hold, then pulls back slightly, his eyes roaming Reid's face, registering the small smile, the slightly flushed cheeks, the reassuring warmth in the eyes.

"Spencer." Aaron's voice is breathy, vibrant with relief, and he barely recognizes it as his own.

"I'm okay," Reid whispers, and Aaron registers the barest shake of his voice, and worries for a moment, but then realizes Reid is unsure of how to react to Aaron's display of emotions.

Aaron doesn't think he's ever made a bigger effort to shake off an unwanted emotion, to compartmentalize – and he carefully folds together his mixed palette of emotions and stores them away in a private box in his mind for future analysis.

Then he let go of Reid and turns to Morgan, who manages to look completely unfazed by it all, as if this is how Aaron naturally reacts whenever someone from the team is knocked over by an unsub.

Al Black has taken up pursuit of the creature, and Prentiss and Rossi are right behind him. Morgan hovers, obviously wanting to make sure Reid is alright. Or maybe his doubts are more strongly directed at Aaron's unusually emotional behavior.

Aaron can't bring himself to care.

"Morgan, JJ." Both his agents look at him with a wary expression. "What the hell was that thing? Did you get a good look?"

JJ's face is pale, frozen, and Aaron notices Morgan shooting a look at the gun she's clutching in her hand.

"It was…. It looked like a wolf," she whispers, and Morgan makes an incredulous sound, draws his gun and heads for the left room. They all stare after him, and Aaron feels strangely disappointed when Morgan returns after a moment, his eyebrows raised, and says: "The broken lump of stone is still in there."

"Then it must be one of the others." Reid's voice is slightly timid, but his gaze unwavering as Aaron looks at him. Morgan snorts again, shaking his head.

"Oh come on, people! Stone does not come alive! It doesn't! It must be…"

He is interrupted by the sound of someone running hastily down the stairs and towards the room. Aaron recognizes the smell of Al Black's aftershave moments before the Deputy appears in the doorway, his face sweaty, chest heaving and eyes flickering.

"There's someone outside. Dead. Torn apart."

Aaron only takes a moment to make sure Reid can stand on his feet after pulling him upright, before he runs outside after Morgan and JJ.

Rossi and Prentiss are standing next to something that Aaron at first mistakes for a pile of leaves. But as he gets closer, he realizes it is in fact a human body, literally shredded to pieces. JJ makes a small sound and turns away, and Reid grimaces as he catches up.

"Looks like our killer is really pissed off about that Ming vase," Rossi states drily, putting his cell phone away.

A police car turns into the parking lot on squealing tires, and it's barely come to a halt before the Chief emerges, his face red from excitement. Hamill exits as well as soon as he's stopped the engine, and the young officer's face revolts at the sight of the torn body on the grounds.

"Ugh, how disgusting! Did you see the killer? Was it really one of the statues?"

As on cue, they all look towards the roof – where a row of four guardians are sitting neatly in perfect synch, displaying their stone teeth in a twisted grin, looking for all intents and purposes like four very dead lumps of stone.

"Of course it wasn't," Morgan sighs, staring at Hamill until the young officer averts his eyes and shrugs.

"Look, whatever it was, it can't be far from here," Aaron interrupts, and for some reason he can't forget the sight of they gray…. creature lunging past him, the smell of sulfur and blood and… death that seemed to seep into his mind for a fleeting moment. "There was **some** kind of animal down in that basement, and…"

He is interrupted by a piercing scream from JJ, which sets his heart thundering and makes Hamill squeak in surprise. Aaron watches his blonde colleague go deathly pale, and he takes a step forward as Prentiss simultaneously grabs hold of JJ's arm to steady her.

"JJ?" Morgan's voice is shocked, but JJ is staring fixedly at the roof, her eyes wide and frightened, her lips barely moving as she says: "The west wall. There's…. one's missing. There's a hole. Look!" She screams the last word, making Morgan take a step back in surprise, his eyes wide as he, along with everyone else, looks.

After a second where time seems to stand still, Reid makes a sound that sounds suspiciously like a laugh, and when most of the people present look at him with varying degrees of incredulity, he shakes his head.

"Of course one's missing. It's lying in the basement with a broken leg."

Al Black lets out a slightly hysterical bark of laughter, and Prentiss joins him while Dex and Hamill look increasingly confused. As JJ joins in the laughter, though Aaron notices Prentiss hugging her closely when the laughter turns into a strangled sobbing, Rossi tells the two latecomers about the broken guardian in the basement room. Hamill looks relieved, but Dex keeps looking at the hole on the roof, frowning.

"I'm sorry," JJ sniffs, her face both guilty and relieved. "I forgot about that. I'm just… unsettled."

"We know," Prentiss says in a low, soothing voice, shooting Aaron a knowing look. He is about to nod, understanding Prentiss' intention of taking JJ back to the hotel, when a voice calls out.

"FBI! This way, quick!"

Aaron sees Sam Hauser standing thirty feet away, towards the corner that leads to the east side of the building. The custodian looks absolutely terrified, and Aaron halfway suspects they're about to discover another mutilated body. He strides towards Hauser, with everyone else in hot pursuit, and the custodian leads them around the corner. He stops abruptly and looks up, and Aaron follows his gaze to one of the guardians.

"Look at it," Hauser whispers, and as Aaron carefully inspects the guardian, he's slightly worried that the custodian has gone a little insane.

"What are we looking at?" Morgan's voice is skeptical, but Hauser doesn't flinch. Instead he keeps his eyes firmly locked on the guardian.

"It's facing north," Hauser croaks, and Aaron is certain his own heart skips three or four beats as he lets his gaze trail over the three other guardians on the east wall. Hauser continues, almost as if in a trance: "They all face south. Always. Did yesterday. This one faces north." The custodian keeps repeating the words, and Aaron keeps thinking it must be a mistake, that someone messed up when the guardians were put back up – but he can't convince himself that someone would overlook such an error; can't bring himself to believe that anyone else wouldn't notice what they're all staring at now: a row of four guardians, where three are facing south and the fourth is turned away from them, facing north, its stone teeth glinting in the sun as they are displayed in a devilish grin.

Aaron lets his eyes roam over the faces of his colleagues, discarding everyone's stunned expression before focusing on JJ's face, which is contorted into a mask of utter shock. He takes half a step forwards, ready to handle whatever reaction is coming from his blonde colleague.

Therefore, he is entirely unprepared as Al Black's eyes roll back in his head and the Deputy slumps to the ground in a dead faint, just moments before the Chief's ashen face contorts into a grimace of pain as he clutches at his heart.

* * *

**EPILOGUE:**

"Goodbye, Carmine Falls."

Prentiss makes a mocking salute and Morgan chuckles as the plane slowly builds speed on the tarmac before taking off.

"And good riddance," JJ mutters, smiling faintly at Aaron as he catches her eyes. He returns the smile, then turns his attention to the empty screen on his laptop, where he's supposed to write a draft of the report of the case.

The soft clinking sound of the ice in Rossi's drink distracts him, and he raises his eyes to look at the older agent. Rossi returns the look calmly as he takes a hefty swig of his scotch.

It's only 10.17 in the morning.

Aaron pushes his own glass of scotch slightly away from his laptop. He wants to keep a clear head for the draft.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen an officer as embarrassed as Al Black," Rossi says with a crooked smile, and Aaron feels the corners of his own lips quirking in response. He rode with the ambulance taking the Chief to the hospital, where a very reassuring doctor told them the Chief was not going into cardiac arrest, but merely suffering from _'too much running around and not enough sleep – and in your age, Dex!_'. The Chief had looked moderately embarrassed – but apparently not in the league of Al Black, if one is to believe Morgan's vivid description of the expression on the Deputy's face after waking up from his '_momentary bout of dizziness'_, as he insisted on calling it.

The Chief and the Deputy had both escorted the team personally to the plane. The Chief had taken off his sunglasses, giving Aaron a solemn look after the exchange of mutual promises on keeping the other party up to date.

"Look, Hotch – I don't know what the hell was going on here. But I talked with the Mayor last night, and he's going to tell Meissner to destroy those things. And I'll bet you good money that we won't have any more trouble like that ever again when it's done."

Aaron had looked at him seriously.

"Dex, I must repeat that as long as we don't have anything official to put in the report, my supervisor is not going to be happy about us dropping off the case."

The Chief had snorted, his lips turning into a wry grin.

"Hell, Hotch, you can tell her that I dismissed you! And I know you guys can't work with the local PD's unless you're invited to do so. You're no longer invited – and you can tell your dragon lady boss that!"

Aaron had smiled at the wry warmth underlying the words, and told himself to have a friendly chat with Reid later about how agents must and must not describe their section chief, no matter how accurate the sentiment is.

"Don't worry about us, Dex – we'll handle the paperwork. But I do hope you're right about having no more trouble."

The Chief had placed a big hand on Aaron's shoulder, giving him one of the most sincere looks Aaron had ever seen.

"Hotch, I know I'm right. Deep in my gut I know it. And I cannot thank you enough for all you've done. You're always welcome back in Carmine Falls. Heck, you never got around to trying our famous golf course!"

Aaron had laughed, feeling oddly liberated.

"Dex, if I ever get a craving for golf, you'll be the first I think of!"

And then the team had boarded the plane, after saying their goodbyes, and Aaron had turned around for a moment to see Dex and Al Black leaning against the patrol cars, sunglasses on against the rising sun – a reverse scene of their arrival only a few days earlier.

It has been the longest few days in Aaron's life.

And there's still a report to write.

"So," Rossi says, nodding towards the laptop in front of Aaron. "What are you going to write to Strauss?"

Aaron stares at the empty screen, and then almost on their own volition, his eyes seem to find Reid, who is dealing out cards to a game of poker, a reluctant Morgan and relaxed Prentiss on the opposite side of the table. Aaron smiles as he faintly hears Morgan's, "… still owe you at least twenty bucks from our last flight," Reid's smug, "that's okay, you can work them off," Prentiss' indignant, "hey, Reid, he was talking to **me**," Morgan's groan and Reid's totally innocent, "oh, I know – but a rash promise of a date doesn't mean you're already _married_ to Rossi, does it?", and the welcoming sound of JJ's giggly laughter.

Rossi is a master of ignoring that which doesn't suit him, and he practices this fine art now, only raising his eyebrows slightly as he looks to Aaron for an answer.

"What will I write?" Aaron muses, and his eyes are once again drawn to Reid who expertly ducks out of the way as Prentiss throws a handful of peanuts after him, and as Reid's eyes meet Aaron's for a moment, Aaron sees the silent laughter and affection of camaraderie that's been absent for what seems like so long, and more so, he sees no hint of the shadows of fear or guilt that's been lurking for what seems like even longer. Reid offers a tiny smile before he turns his attention back to the cards, and Aaron turns his attention back to Rossi, who is patiently waiting for a reply.

"I guess," Aaron says slowly, "that I will just have to write the truth."

"And that is…?" Rossi looks expectant, and Aaron allows a tiny smile of his own to break free.

"The truth is… something happened that I can't quite explain."

**THE END.**


End file.
